x 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


/f. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S 


CHIP  BASKET; 


CHOICE     SELECTIONS 


LECTURES,   ESSAYS,   ADDRESSES,    EDITORIALS,   AND 
PUBLIC   AND   SOCIAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 


COMPILED    AND    EDITED    BY 

H.  A.  TAYLOR. 


HUDSON,    WI  S. 
STAR  AND  TIMES  PRINTING  HOUSE, 

1874. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

H.  A.  TAYLOR  &  CO., 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


\I814 


\ 

\ 
\ 


TO   ALL    THOSE   WHO 
RECOGNIZE  THE    GOOD,  CHERISH    THE   TRUE, 

AND 

ADMIRE   THE   BEAUTIFUL, 

THIS 

LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED. 


M367925  ' 


INDEX 


DEDICATION, 3 

INTRODUCTION,      - 7 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR,     -------          9 

MARGARET  FULLER  —  A  LECTURE,        -        -        -        -     19 

THE  CHIP  BASKET, 43 

MIRAGE,          -     .    -        -        -        _        _        _•_        -45 

LOST  MOTION, _._        49 

To  A  BOY  EDITOR,        -------    51 

A  NIGHT  IN  A  LIGHTHOUSE,     -----         57 

THE  NIGHT  TRAIN,       - 59 

"POOR  CARLOTTA!"  ---_.-•_  61 
THE  TYPE  AND  THE  TYPOS,  -  -  -  -  -  63 
WINTER,  _--_-____  67 

DEATH  OF  WEDDED  LOVE, 71 

THE  NEW  YEAR,       - 73 

GETTING  WELL, 75 

ROBERT  BURNS,          - 77 

VENTRILOQUISM, -        -        -    81 

A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE,        -        -        -        _•  _         83 

RELIGIOUS  PROFESSORS,         ______    89 

DEC.  2,  1859,     -_-.____         91 

AN  IDEAL  POEM, 92 

CHICAGO,  --_--..__         93 

THANKSGIVING  — 1862, 97 

SOCIAL  CORRESPONDENCE,          -        -        -        ...         99 

Two  PICTURES,     - -  121 

FISHING,  AND  OTHER  THINGS, 125 

A  HUMAN  RUIN, -        -  130 

A  POEM,    -----..-_       131 


6  CONTENTS. 

FOURTH  OF  JULY  ORATION,  ------  137 

CHAMBER  SCENE,        _______       145 

ALL'S  RIGHT,         ________  146 

WHAT  I  KNOW  ABOUT  STAMMERING,       -     '  -        -       147 

THE  NEWSPAPER, 153 

AGRICULTURE,    -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -159 

A  PREFATORY  LETTER, 163 

TOOTH  PULLING,       _______       165 

To 167 

HORACE  GREELEY,   -.-._..        168 

THE  TIN-PAIL  BRIGADE, 171 

LINES  WRITTEN   ON    READING   LINCOLN'S  INAUGURAL 
ADDRESS,  ________    173 

REASON  AND  RELIGION, 175 

DISCOVERERS, 176 

BLIGHT  AND  BLOOM,         -        -        -        -        -        -179 

RADICALISM,          ________  183 

LOOKS  UPWARD  TO  GOD, 184 

INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATURE  UPON  LIFE,        -        -        -  185 

TRUE  FRIENDS, 187 

ART,      -        -        -        -        -        -        _,_        _        _  189 

To  DESDEMONA,        _______       190 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  PRINCIPLE, 191 

THE  BANNER, 192 

THE  WANING  YEAR, 193 

THE  BLACK  CROOK, 196 

CHRISTMAS  AND  CHRISTMAS  GIVING,    -  197 

LOAFERISM  is  DEATH,       ______       199 

TRAIN  AND  CHRISTIANITY, 203 

"ALL  RIGHT," 208 

GRAVES  AND  GRAVEYARDS, 211 

THE  HOLIDAYS, 214 

SOCIOLOGY, 217 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  publication  of  this  volume  was  not  undertaken  with 
the  expectation  that  it  would  fill  any  especial  place  in 
the  realm  of  Letters,  nor  that  it  would  ever  be  very  widely 
introduced  into  the  libraries  of  the  general  reading  public. 
It  has  been  issued  in  compliance  with  a  prevailing  sentiment, 
among  the  many  personal  friends  and  literary  admirers  of 
LUTE  A.  TAYLOR,  that  his  writings  are  worthy  preservation 
in  permanent  form,  and  entitled  to  a  distinction  above  that 
accorded  to  the  transitory  newspaper  literature  of  the  day. 

With  these  unambitious  expectations,  yet  confident  in  this 
belief,  the  contemplated  publication  of  this  little  volume  was 
announced.  I  have  been  alike  gratified  and  surprised  at  the 
general  expression  of  satisfaction  given  that  such  a  book 
was  to  be  issued,  and  at  the  great  number  of  orders  already 
received  for  it. 

In  the  compilation  of  this  volume  there  has  been  no 
attempt  at  any  systematic  arrangement  of  subjects,  modi 
fication  of  ideas,  or  changes  of  phraseology.  Although  many 
of  the  articles  it  contains  were  written  in  the  hurry  always 
incident  to  the  duties  of  the  editor  of  a  daily  paper,  and 
would,  no  doubt,  have  been  more  polished  and  pungent  had 
the  writer  bestowed  longer  time  upon  them ;  yet  we  give  them 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

mainly  as  found,  with  the  occasional  changes  made  necessary 
where  only  a  portion  of  an  article  is  selected. 

The  greatest  embarrassment  met  with  in  compiling  this 
work,  has  been  to  select  from  the  great  mass  of  materials 
before  me  such  articles  and  extracts  as  most  distinctly  bear 
the  impress  of  the  wonderful  genius,  and  give  the  clearest 
conception  of  the  noble  impulses  and  settled  convictions  of 
the  writer. 

I  have  gathered  up  but  a  few  "  chips  "  from  among  many 
—  all  hewn  out  by  the  skilled  hand  of  a  master  builder.  But 
the  "  basket"  is  full,  and  I  send  it  forth  knowing  it  will  carry 
good  cheer  and  blessing  to  some  homes  and  hearts,  and,  I 
trust,  to  many.  H.  A.  T. 

HUDSON,  Wis.,  February,  1874. 


LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 


LUTE  A.  TAYLOR  was  born  in  Norfolk,  St.  Lawrence 
county,  New  York,  September  I4th,  1835.  His  father 
died  when  Lute  was  but  eight  years  of  age,  leaving  his  mo 
ther,  with  a  family  of  five  children,  in  destitute  circumstances. 
He  was,  therefore,  from  his  early  boyhood,  compelled  to  a  life 
of  toil.  He  earned  with  his  own  hands  the  means  to  support 
himself,  and  to  acquire  a  thorough  academical  education. 
He  very  early  gave  evidence  of  excellent  literary  taste  and 
abilities. 

In  the  fall  of  1856  he  moved  to  River  Falls,  Pierce  county, 
Wisconsin,  and  in  June  of  the  following  year  he  issued  the 
initial  number  of  his  first  newspaper  —  the  "River  Falls 
Journal."  In  the  spring  of  1861  he  removed  the  "Journal" 
office  to  Prescott,  Wis.,  where,  until  1869,  he  published  the 
"Prescott  Journal."  In  August,  1869,  he  entered  upon  a 
broader  field  of  journalism,  becoming  one  of  the  publishers 
and  the  editor-in-chief  of  the  La  Crosse  "  Morning  Leader." 
This  position  he  filled  until  a  few  months  prior  to  his  death. 
In  his  career  as  an  editor  he  was  distinguished  by  a  keen 
wit,  a  bright  and  vigorous  style,  and  great  range  of  subjects. 
His  fame  was  justly  high,  and  his  ability  was  well  known 
and  appreciated  by  a  wide  circle  of  readers. 

Mr.  Taylor  was  appointed  Assistant  Assessor  of  Internal 
Revenue,  on  the  organization  of  that  bureau  of  service,  and 
very  soon  after,  on  the  ist  of  January,  1864,  he  received  the 


16  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

appointment  as  Assessor  of  the  Sixth  Congressional  District 
of  Wisconsin,  and  continued  in  that  office  until  its  abolition, 
in  the  spring  of  1873.  On  the  designation  of  La  Crosse 
as  a  port  of  entry,  in  the  summer  of  1873,  Mr.  Taylor  was 
appointed  surveyor  of  the  port,  which  position  he  held  at  the 
time  of  his  death. 

Mr.  Taylor  died  at  his  home  in  La  Crosse,  Wis.,  of  con 
gestion  of  the  lungs,  after  an  illness  of  a  week,  on  the  nth 
day  of  November,  1873. 

It  is  surely  an  easy  task  to  praise  a  friend,  but  to  praise 
him  wisely  is  not  easy.  There  are  a  great  many  who  loved 
Lute  A.  Taylor  looking  on  as  I  write,  and  their  affection  for 
him  will  make  them  severe  critics.  They  will  hardly  let  the 
right  intention  excuse  poor  work.  Nevertheless,  as  he  was 
generous  himself,  it  may  be  hoped  that  his  friends  are  gener 
ous  also,  and  that  they  will  read  "  the  lines  between  the  lines," 
and  so  fulfill  that  which  is  lacking  in  this  attempt. 

The  most  of  those  who  will  read  these  words  knew  him 
by  thought,  if  not  by  sight.  He  had  a  wide  acquaintance,  as 
the  sorrow  at  his  death  has  made  known.  It  seems  that 
those  who  did  know  him  nearly,  were  apt  to  speak  of  him  to 
others. 

There  are  people  whom  you  meet  and  forget  instantly, 
who  speak,  and  no  one  listens — people  with  the  minus  sign 
—  nothing  to  give.  If  you  remember  them  at  all,  it  is  that 
they  have  borrowed  something.  Lute  Taylor  had  life,  and 
that  abundantly ;  threw  off  light  and  heat  like  a  sun.  Men 
remembered  that  they  had  met  him,  and  his  sayings  did  not 
pass  away.  "  His  presence  was  a  festival."  He  lifted  one 
out  of  a  low  mood  on  to  rising  ground.  Men  caught  courage 
and  good  cheer  by  contact  with  him.  He  reconciled  one  to 
being  human.  "  Bright  is  the  sun,  O  Frenchman,  when  thou 
comest  to  visit  us  ! "  said  the  Chief  of  the  Illinois  to  Pere 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  ti 

Marquette.  Our  friend  had  this  power  to  brighten  a  dull 
landscape,  to  let  the  light  in  and  chase  away  the  shadows. 
Nature  made  him  a  welcome  guest  in  the  homes  and  hearts 
of  men. 

The  evening  of  his  lecture,  perhaps,  was  stormy,  and  the 
people  gathered  together  might  have  been  wet  outside  and 
gloomy  within.  He  cured  all  that  in  five  minutes.  It  was 
something  like  what  was  done  at  the  wedding  at  Cana  of 
Galilee.  He  began  with  a  benediction ;  there  was  a  color 
and  "  bead "  in  what  he  said  that  restored  the  circulation. 
Men  with  blank  faces,  rayless  of  expression  since  childhood, 
felt  the  blood  coming  to  the  Surface,  and  began  to  look  hu 
man  with  laughter  and  tears.  It  was  worth  a  good  deal  to 
see  this  smiting  of  the  rock  and  to  find  that  it  was  moist  at 
the  center. 

Taylor  was  a  natural  man,  sinless  of  the  self-conscious 
ness  that  murders  so  many.  He  lost  himself  in  the  theme 
of  his  discourse,  and  in  the  melody  he  chanted  was  able  to 
put  his  purpose  above  himself.  It  is  a  rare  gift ;  without  it 
there  is  no  easy  attitude,  or  free,  brave  stroke  possible.  I  think 
that  Taylor  saved  more  of  his  childhood  than  most  men  — 
was  not  spoiled- by  life.  If  he  failed  to  learn  our  prudence, 
he  also  neglected  to  acquire  our  suspicion  and  miserable 
doubt  of  all  the  good  we  see.  He  died  without  making  this 
grievous  gain  that  costs  us  a  good  deal  to  get,  and  makes  us 
sorry  to  keep.  Taylor  was  one  of  those  who,  when  they  die, 
make  the  world  seem  thinly  inhabited.  He  was  not  as  other 
men  are.  The  majority  of  all  who  have  lived  to  middle  age 
have  declared  that  there  was  no  use  in  it —  that  life  was  a 
barren  errand,  no  gain  in  doing  it,  except  weariness.  Perhaps 
they  all  started  with  a  purpose  to  pick  berries  for  market, 
but  before  noon  they  looked  in  the  pail,  and  had  so  few, 
that  they  concluded  that  they  might  as  well  eat  them,  and 


12  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

did  it,  and  so  have  gone  home  ashamed.  Thoreau  says  that 
"  the  boy  gathers  materials  for  a  temple,  and  then,  when  he  is 
thirty,  concludes  to  build  a  woodshed."  We  are,  most  of  us, 
acquainted  with  that  boy.  We  shall  see  him  putting  his  head 
on  his  hand,  and  thinking  of  his  childish  purpose  —  the  beauty 
of  it,  and,  alas !  the  vanity  of  it.  That  he  should  ever  have 
thought  to  have  kept  a  sentiment  in  such  a  world  as  this ! 
Then  he  ceases  to  grow,  and  begins  to  wither  and  to  shrink. 

"  In  his  heai't  is  the  wind  of  Autumn, 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow." 

There  are  signs  that  navigation  is  about  to  close.  The 
generous  impulse  and  ready  belief  of  youth  are  being  fro 
zen  in;  the  fire  is  going  out.  Once  in  a  while  the  Rachel 
within  lifts  up  a  lament  for  the  slain  children  of  hope,  but 
more  and  more  faintly";  there  are  plenty  of  worldly  maxims  to 
hush  her  with. 

But  there  was  one  among  us  who  had  not  made  this  fail 
ure  and  fall.  Our  friend  had  kept  his  heart.  "  Blessed  are 
they  that  hear  the  joyful  sound."  Taylor  had  an  ear  for  it, 
detected  it,  where  we  hear  only  the  doleful.  How  quick  was 
his  recognition,  how  prompt  his  praise  of  anything  good  in 
the  work  of  his  fellows ! 

In  a  little  book  called  "Back-Log  Studies,"  there  is  a 
pleasant  picture.  It  is  a  day  of  winter  storm ;  wild  snow 
drifts  blown  against  the  windows  of  the  cellar  kitchen  of  a 
farm  house.  A  boy  sits  in  the  chimney-corner  reading  about 
Burgoyne  and  the  Indian  wars.  "John,"  says  the  mother, 
"you'll  burn  your  head  to  a  crisp  in  that  heat."  But  John 
does  not  hear.  He  is  storming  the  plains  of  Abraham  just 
now.  "Johnny,  dear,  bring  in  a  stick  of  wood."  How  can 
Johnny  bring  in  wood  when  he  is  in  that  defile  with  Braddock, 
and  the  Indians  are  popping  at  him  from  behind  every  tree? 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.      .        13 

The  childhood  of  Taylor  was  in  the  days  of  the  back 
log,  the  forestick,  and  the  tallow  candle.  Days  of  the  stage 
driver,  and  of  Walter  Scott's  novels.  There  was  little  to  read, 
and  that  little  was  good.  Luke's  "  Lives  of  Saints,"  and  Plu 
tarch's  "  Lives  of  Heroes."  I  think  something  of  the  charm 
of  his  manner,  and  quaintness  of  his  speech,  was  due  to  these 
early  associations.  He  was  old-fashioned.  The  memory  of 
the  old  stories  read  in  the  firelight  was  very  bright  in  him, 
and  gave  his  conversation  the  glow  of  the  early  time,  when 
we  did  not  have  to  import  a  man  from  Switzerland,  in  order 
to  possess  one  who  had  "  no  time  to  make  money." 

I  believe  that  the  impediment  in  his  speech  was  a  blessing 
to  it  —  delayed  it,  as  the  drawing  of  a  bow  delays  the  arrow. 
It  was  as  a  clam  ;  when  the  sentence  broke  over,  it  fell  in 
power  of  volume  to  turn  the  wheel  of  the  mill,  and  in  beauty 
of  spray  to  please  the  eye  of  the  miller. 

I  believe  that  if  you  "improve"  the  trout  brook,  by  pick 
ing  the  rocks  out  of  its  bed,  and  by  straightening  its  channel, 
you  will  be  sorry.  Let  every  man  glory  in  his  infirmities. 
Hindrances  help  —  the  kitemaker  knows  it,  and  God  knows 
it,  and  makes  his  men  according,  giving  them  weights  to 
carry. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  can  prove  to  a  stranger  and  an  un 
believer  that  Taylor  was  a  man  of  genius.  I  believe  that  all 
who  knew  him  felt  that  he  was.  The  work  that  some  men 
are  permitted  to  do  is  greater  than  they  are.  We  trace  the 
works  of  Shakspeare  back  to  the  poor  player,  and  cannot  so 
account  for  them.  And  again,  some  men  are  greater  than 
their  work ;  what  they  do  is  only  a  sign.  Taylor  was  never 
brought  into  action.  There  were  reserves  in  him  that  were 
never  called  to  the  front.  He  died,  leaving  a  mass  of  unfin 
ished  business.  He  thought  that  life  was  a  long  summer  day. 
It  was  not,  for  him,  even  a  short  winter  day.  Who  thought 


14  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

that  he  would  be  called  at  noon?  So  with  him,  the  morning 
was  used  in  doing  chores,  in  going  on  necessary  errands; 
perhaps  he  was  gone  longer  than  was  necessary;  also,  in 
chatting  with  the  neighbors  who  dropped  in,  the  time  flew 
by,  and  the  day  for  him  was  done. 

We  miss  the  master;  he  is  gone,  leaving  few  designs 
drawn  on  the  trestle-board.  We  believe  they  were  drawn  in 
his  mind,  and  that  he  had  the  power  and  will  to  build  accord 
ing  to  them,  and  make  his  works  his  witnesses. 

It  is  not  easy  to  enter  on  a  literary  career  —  easy  enough, 
if  fortunate,  to  continue  it.  We  must  do  some  things  before 
we  can  sit  down  to  a  task  that  is  done  on  such  long  time  as 
one's  first  literary  work. 

The  question  of  "bread"  does  come  in.  Burns  must 
plow  the  daisy  under,  and  then,  if  he  has  time,  he  can  lift  it 
up  to  bloom  in  a  poem  immortal  —  an  unfading  flower  of  a 
not  transient  summer. 

I  take  little  stock  in  the  present  blessing  said  to  be  dis 
guised  in  poverty.  It  may  work  out  something  for  us 
hereafter,  but  in  the  life  that  now  is,  it  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
curse.  It  consumes  the  days  of  youth,  and  postpones  the 
task  that  has  no  money  in  it  to  the  days  that  may  come,  and 
find  us  in  no  mood  for  working  worthily,  or  past  all  work, 
dead  under  the  snow. 

If  we  were  assured  a  reasonably  long  life,  we  could,  per 
haps,  afford  to  spend  thirty  or  forty  years  in  fighting,  and 
slaying,  and  burying  past  all  resurrection  the  wolf  at  the 
door,  and  then  go  in,  and  still  have  time  to  do  the  thing  we 
want  to  do. 

As  it  is,  the  life  is  worn  away  in  getting  a  living,  and 
there  is  little  or  nothing  over.  The  miller  has  taken  the  grist 
for  toll.  The  fate  that  sets  Burns  to  plowing  is  as  an  Indian 
who  makes  an  arrow-head  out  of  a  diamond. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  15 

The  man  of  whom  I  am  writing  had  no  complaint  of  this 
kind  to  make.  I  make  it  for  him.  He  bided  his  time — earned 
a  book,  and  looked  into  it,  and  laid  it  down,  to  go  to  work  at 
anything  that  offered ;  cut  his  own  way,  made  his  own  clear 
ing.  So  it  is  that  there  is  so  little  of  what  he  has  done  in  the 
line  of  his  genius.  His  common  conversation  was  evidence 
enough  of  the  unwrought  wealth  that  lay  under.  What  was 
carelessly  tossed  up  on  the  surface  was  a  sufficient  sign. 

He  was  thoroughly  human,  and  so  had  faults.  But,  if 
the  flaws  had  all  been  ground  down,  and  ground  out,  he 
would  still  be  of  rare  size.  His  faults  were  of  the  kind  that 
make  us  sorry  and  not  angry.  With  great  gifts  come  great 
dangers.  Lute  Taylor  was  not  what  he  ought  to  have  been ; 
but  when  you  told  him  so,  it  was  no  news  to  him ;  it  was  a 
thought  familiar  enough.  Some  men  need  a  logical  argument 
to  convince  them  that  they  are  sinners.  They  are  so  prudent 
and  sly  in  concealing  their  sin  from  others  that  they  forget 
where  it  is  themselves.  Taylor  was  not  of  that  kindred  ; 
never  numbed  and  discouraged  his  conscience  by  disputing 
its  voice,  but  confessed  judgment. 

An  extract  from  Carlyle's  words,  concerning  another,  ex 
presses  the  truth  of  him :  "  Who  is  called  the  man  after  God's 
own  heart?  David,  the  Hebrew  king,  had  fallen  into  sins 
enough  ;  there  was  no  want  of  sin,  and,  therefore,  unbelievers 
sneer,  and  ask,  Is  this  your  man  according  to  God's  heart? 
The  sneer,  I  must  say,  seems  to  me  but  a  shallow  one.  What 
are  faults,  what  are  the  outward  details  of  a  life,  if  the  inner 
secret  of  it,  the  remorse,  temptations,  the  often  baffled,  never 
ended  struggle  of  it,  be  forgotten  ?  David's  life  and  history, 
as  written  for  us  in  those  Psalms  of  his,  I  consider  the  truest 
emblem  ever  given  us  of  a  man's  moral  progress  and  warfare 
here  below.  All  earnest  souls  will  ever  discern  in  it  the  faith 
ful  struggle  of  an  earnest  human  soul  toward  what  is  good 


16  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

and  best.  Struggle  often  baffled  —  sore  baffled,  driven  as  into 
entire  wreck  !  Yet  a  struggle  never  ended  — ever  with  tears, 
repentance,  true,  unconquerable  purpose  —  begun  anew." 

There  is,  O  reader!  sin,  and  sin:  we  must  distinguish  be 
tween  the  sin  of  impulse,  the  outward  stain,  and  that  which 
dyes  the  soul  in  the  grain.  The  outcast  girl  of  the  street  is 
forgiven.  The  whip  of  cords  is  braided  for  the  respectable 
trader  who  has  an  office  in  the  temple.  Envy,  malice,  un- 
charity  —  these  are  of  the  brood  who  gnaw  from  within  out  — 
leave  the  man  hollow  to  the  whitewash.  Of  this  generation 
of  serpents,  the  heart  of  Lute  Taylor  knew  nothing. 

We  must  make  the  distinction,  for  it  is  wide.  Richard 
Yates,  in  his  last  speech,  after  alluding  to  the  way  sundry 
Christian  statesmen  once  had  of  using  him,  and  his  infirmity 
to  point  a  moral,  and  then  calling  attention  to  the  late 
appearance  of  the  names  of  these  brethren  in  the  "  little 
memorandum  book  "  of  Oakes  Ames,  said:  "  My  friends  and 
neighbors,  I  want  you  to  remember  that  if  my  hand  does 
tremble,  it  is  clean." 

Nature  forbids  some  people  to  be  generous  in  judgment ; 
but  there  is  always  a  chance  for  an  attempt  to  be  just. 
There's  a  choice  in  sinners.  We  rather  have  the  prodigal 
son  for  a  neighbor  than  his  elder  brother.  And  I  judge 
from  the  parable  that  we  agree  with  Christ.  Let  us  look 
at  one  another  "  at  our  best,"  and  believe  that  so  we  shall 
all  appear  at  our  last. 

The  face  of  Lute  Taylor  is  before  me  as  I  write.  None 
more  kindly  under  the  sun.  Children  believed  in  it,  and  old 
men.  You  can't  deceive  instinct  and  experience  both.  You 
can't  wear  a  good  face  thirty-eight  years  without  the  help  of 
a  good  heart.  The  lines  are  graven  from  within.  There  is 
no  beauty  at  that  age,  except  the  beauty  of  thought.  The 
fashion  that  it  wears  reveals  the  taste  of  the  spirit. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  17 

"Thoughts  of  youth  are  long, long  thoughts,"  sings  Long 
fellow.  It  seems  so.  The  chief  book  of  Taylor's  childhood 
in  his  last  days  again  took  its  place.  Being  asked,  "What 
shall  I  read  to  you  ? "  he  answered,  "  Something  from  Paul. 
I  want  something  that  has  meat  in  it."  And  so  was  read  to 
him  that  wonderful  fifteenth  chapter  of  Paul's  first  letter  to 
the  Corinthians. 

With  these  words  for  his  company— rod  and  staff'  to  com 
fort  him  in  his  journey  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death  — we  have,  in  sorrow  and  hope,  bidden  him  "  ADIEU," 
and  "TILL  WE  MEET  AGAIN." 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP -BASKET, 


A  LECTURE. 


MARGARET  FULLER. 


MARGARET   FULLER. 


MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI  is  the  most 
noteworthy  and  remarkable  woman  whom 
America  has  produced.  Without  scepter,  or  crown 
or  throne,  she  was  still  a  queen.  Into  whatever 
circle  she  came,  she  was  its  central  figure;  always 
the  inspiring  teacher,  the  wise  counselor,  the  faith 
ful  friend.  It  is  now  but  twenty  years  since  the 
remorseless  waves  of  the  Atlantic  swallowed  up  all 
of  her  that  was  mortal,  yet  she  already  wears  the 
luster  of  an  historic  name.  Her  pictures  do  not  line 
our  albums,  nor  hang  upon  our  parlor  walls,  yet  her 
influence  is  wide  and  widening  and  her  fame  is 
assured. 

Women  sometimes  win  an  enduring  place  in  his 
tory,  and  are  welcomed  into  the  warm  regard  and 
affection  of  the  world,  simply  because  they  are  the 
wives  of  eminent  men.  It  is  doing  no  discredit  to 
the  honorable  name  of  Martha  Washington  to  say, 
that  in  almost  every  American  town  there  are  women 
who,  in  natural  endowment  and  variety  of  achieve 
ment,  are  her  equals  at  least.  It  was  the  relation 
in  which  she  stood  to  the  great  man  who  is  the  cen 
tral  figure  of  our  early  history,  that  has  made  her 


22  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

name  a  household  word  wherever  the  English  lan 
guage  is  spoken,  and,  with  a  few  notable  exceptions, 
it  is  to  a  similar  cause  that  other  well  known  Ameri 
can  women  owe  their  prominence. 

It  was  not  thus  with  Margaret  Fuller.  She  rose 
to  her  position  of  eminence  by  the  unaided  force 
of  her  own  great  achievement.  She  ruled  in  her 
own  right,  and  there  was  none  to  dispute  her  title  to 
the  queendom ;  and  the  fact  that  her  life  and  history 
may  not  be  familiar  to  the  mass  of  her  countrymen 
and  countrywomen,  detracts  nothing  from  the  splen 
dor  of  her  genius,  and  will  only  retard,  but  not 
defeat,  its  final  recognition. 

There  are  thoughts  which  are  germinal  thoughts ; 
there  are  minds  whose  conceptions  are  so  large, 
and  whose  logic  is  so  severe,  that  they  must  be 
interpreted  into  common  phrase  before  they  are 
universally  accepted  and  understood.  Thus  the 
beauties  of  Solomon's  Song,  or  the  almost  equally 
divine  sonnets  of  Shakspeare,  are  often  unrecognized 
until  they  dribble  out  to  us,  one  beauty  at  a  time, 
in  the  verse  of  lesser  poets.  So  the  great  writers 
upon  political  economy  reach  the  people  mainly  as 
their  ideas  are  retailed  out  in  articles  of  the  news 
paper  press. 

It  is,  fortunately,  not  necessary  to  the  enjoyment 
of  thoughts  or  fancies  that  we  should  know  to  whom 
we  are  indebted  for  them.  In  the  sweet  summer 
time  the  air  of  city  courts  and  country  lanes  is 
musical  with  the^  songs  of  love,  and  the  enjoyment 
of  the  singers  is  no  less  perfect  and  complete  be- 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  23 

cause  they  do  not  know  from  whence  the  sentiment 
and  the  melody  have  come.  In  this  manner  the 
songs  of  Burns  fill  all  the  earth,  and,  in  like  manner, 
the  thoughts  of  Margaret  Fuller  inspire  and  control 
very  many  who  do  not  know  to  whom  they  owe  their 
impulse  and  their  inspiration. 

The  time  of  her  advent  marked  a  new  era  in 
American  life  and  literature.  She  was  one  of  those 
who  gave  to  scholarship  a  broader  culture  ;  to  specu 
lation,  freer  play ;  to  philosophy,  a  bolder  range ;  to 
religion,  a  firmer  faith.  The  sermons  of  Channing 
and  Clarke,  the  essays  of  Emerson,  the  romance  of 
Hawthorne,  and  the  editorials  of  Greeley,  were  alike 
colored  by  contact  with  her  masterful  mind. 

Great  as  she  was  in  the  domain  of  intellect,  her 
mind  did  not  dwarf  her  heart.  Always  the  true, 
noble,  loving  woman,  seeking  truth  at  whatever 
sacrifice,  and  accepting  it  at  whatever  cost,  in  her 
work  of  severe  self-culture  she  never  forgot  the 
struggles  of  others,  or  neglected  to  reach  them  a 
helping  hand.  How  broad  and  catholic  her  sym 
pathies  were,  may  be  inferred  from  the  following 
passage,  taken  from  one  of  her  earlier  poems : 

"Happy  are  all  who  reach  that  crystal  sh&re, 

And  bathe  in  heavenly  day  ; 
Happiest  are  they  who  high  the  banner  bore, 

To  marshal  others  on  the  way  ; 
Or  waited  for  them,  fainting  and  wayworn 

By  burthens  overborne." 

I  apprehend  that  in  this  day  of  universal  suffrage 
—  this  day  of  deification  of  the  people  —  when  nu- 


24  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

merical  majority  is  made  the  test  of  truth,  and 
success  the  criterion  of  merit,— that  it  will  do  us 
good  to  turn  from  the  contemplation  of  the  dead 
level  of  the  masses,  and  lift  our  eyes  to  meet  the 
radiance  of  some  surpassing  life.  We  need  to  cool 
our  admiration  of  majorities  by  a  little  devout  and 
reverent  hero  worship.  "  Vox populi  vox  Dei  "  is  one 
of  the  most  subtle  forms  of  falsehood  with  which 
the  devil  ever  calmed  the  fervor  of  noble  aspiration 
or  choked  the  utterance  of  struggling  truth.  The 
voice  of  the  people  is  not  the  voice  of  God,  unless 
it  be  a  Godlike  people  who  speak.  That  voice  is 
more  often  audible  to  us  only  when  echoed  back 
from  the  understanding  hearts  of  the  saints  and 
sages  of  the  time  — only  when  translated  into  the 
lives  and  words  of  such  rare  and  gifted  souls  as  she 
of  whom  I  speak  to  you. 

It  is  necessarily  the  lot  of  most  of  us  to  be  en 
gaged  in  other  than  intellectual  pursuits.  We  are 
not  brought  by  our  daily  walk  into  contact  with 
sages  and  poets ;  we  win  our  bread  from  an  earth 
whose  mysteries  are  not  open  to  us ;  our  daily  inter 
course  is  more  likely  to  stifle  than  encourage  the 
sparks  of  love  and  faith  in  our  breasts,  and  so  there 
is  the  more  necessity  that  we  keep  alive  within  us 
the  conviction  of  the  divinity  of  our  origin  and  the 
possibilities  of  our  future  by  a  reverent  study  of  the 
words  and  deeds  of  those  who  have  lived  on  the 
mountain  heights  of  human  experience,  and  faced 
two  worlds  at  once. 

Margaret  Fuller  was  born  in  Cambridgeport,  Mass., 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  25 

in  1 8 10.  Her  father  was  educated  at  Harvard,  and 
was  a  lawyer  and  a  politician.  She  speaks  of  him 
as  being  largely  endowed  with  that  sagacious  energy 
which  New  England  society  was  so  well  fitted  to 
develop.  The  great  object  of  his  ambition  was  to 
hold  an  honored  place  among  his  fellow  men,  and 
provide  a  comfortable  and  pleasant  home  for  his 
family. 

Of  her  mother  she  says :  "  She  was  one  of  those 
fair  and  flower-like  natures  which  sometimes  spring 
up  beside  the  most  dusty  highways  of  life  —  a 
creature  not  to  be  shaped  into  a  merely  useful 
instrument,  but  bound  by  one  law  to  the  blue  sky, 
the  dew,  and  the  frolic  birds.  Of  all  persons  I  have 
ever  known,  she  had  in  her  most  of  the  angelic  — 
of  that  spontaneous  love  for  every  living  thing  —  for 
man  and  beast  and  tree, —  which  restores  the  golden 
age." 

Margaret  early  gave  proof  of  her  wonderful  power. 
Her  father  was  proud  of  her,  and  stimulated  her 
mind  to  over-work.  At  six  years  of  age  she  read 
Latin  with  ease.  As  she  thoroughly  understood  the 
mechanism  of  the  language,  she  was  required  to 
give  the  thought  in  the  briefest  and  best  arranged 
language  possible.  Thus  her  mind  was  early  trained 
to  work  with  clearness  and  precision ;  but  this  forcing 
process  told  fearfully  on  her  health.  The  poetic, 
dreaming  element,  strong  in  every  child,  was  doubly 
strong  in  her,  and  she  became  the  victim  of  nervous 
ness,  and  the  whole  state  of  her  being  was  painfully 
active  and  intense.  It  was  a  wonder  to  the  family 


that  she  was  never  willing  to  go  to  bed,  but,  using 
her  own  language,  "they  did  not  know  that  as 
soon  as  the  light  Was  taken  away  she  seemed  to  see 
colossal  faces  advancing  slowly  towards  her,  the  eyes 
dilating,  and  each  feature  swelling  loathsomely  as 
they  came,  till  at  last,  when  they  were  about  to  close 
upon  her,  she  started  up  with  a  shriek,  which  drove 
them  away,  but  only  to  return  when  she  lay  down 
again.  They  did  not  know  that  when  she  went  to 
sleep  it  was  to  dream  of  horses  trampling  over  her, 
and  to  wake  in  fright,  as  she  had  just  read  in  her 
Virgil,  of  being  among  trees  that  dropped  with 
blood,  where  she  walked  and  walked,  and  could  not 
get  out,  while  the  blood  became  a  pool  and  plashed 
over  her  feet,  and  soon  she  dreamed  it  would  reach 
her  lips.  No  wonder  the  child  arose  and  walked  in 
her  sleep,  moaning,  over  the  house,  till  once  they 
came  and  waked  her;  and  when  she  told  what  she 
had  been  dreaming  of,  her  father  sharply  told  her 
to  '  leave  off  thinking  of  such  nonsense,  or  she  would 
be  crazy,'  never  dreaming  that  he  was  himself  the 
cause  of  all  these  horrors  of  the  night." 

But  these  spectral  illusions  wore  away ;  the  tone 
of  her  mind  became  more  healthy,  and  study  ceased 
to  be  task  work. 

When  fifteen  years  of  age,  she  gives  the  following 
account  of  her  studies : 

"  I  rise  a  little  before  five,  walk  an  hour,  and  then 
practice  on  the  piano  until  seven,  when  we  break 
fast.  Next  I  read  French  — '  Sismondi's  Literature 
of  the  South  of  Europe'  —  till  eight;  then  two  or 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  27 

three  lectures  in  'Brown's  Philosophy.'  About  half- 
past  nine  I  go  to  Mr.  Parker's  school  and  study 
Greek  till  twelve,  when,  school  being  dismissed,  I 
recite,  go  home  and  practice  again  until  dinner,  at 
two.  Sometimes,  if  the  conversation  is  very  agree 
able,  I  lounge  for  half-an-hour  over  the  dessert, 
though  rarely  so  lavish  of  time.  Then,  when  I  can, 
I  read  two  hours  in  Italian,  but  I  am  often  inter 
rupted.  At  six  I  walk,  or  take  a  drive.  Before 
going  to  bed,  I  play  or  sing  for  half-an-hour  or  so, 
to  make  all  sleepy,  and,  about  eleven,  retire  to  write 
a  little  while  in  my  journal,  or  a  series  of  character 
istics,  which  I  am  fitting  up  according  to  advice. 
Thus,  you  see,  I  am  learning  Greek  and  making 
acquaintance  with  metaphysics  and  French  and 
Italian  literature." 

At  twenty  years  of  age,  she  was  again  in  Cam 
bridge,  and  beneath  the  shadows  of  venerable 
Harvard.  She  was  gladly  welcomed  into  equal 
companionship  with  the  strongest  thought  and  ripest 
culture  of  the  day.  She  had  wealth  and  wisdom  to 
give  as  well  as  to  receive. 

****** 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  details  of 
her  life,  which,  until  her  visit  to  Europe,  was  barren 
of  exciting  interest,  as  the  lives  of  scholars  and 
thinkers  usually  are. 

Her  occupation  was  divided  between  teaching, 
writing  for  the  press  —  the  New  York  "Tribune" 
mainly  —  and  authorship ;  but,  wherever  placed,  she 
was  an  intellectual  magnet,  drawing  to  herself  all 


28  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

that  was  rare  in  culture  and  rich  in  intellectual  en 
dowment. 

She  combined  the  splendor  of  power  and  the 
possession  of  intellect  with  the  grace  of  youth  and 
the  charm  of  womanhood,  and  was  at  once  a  per 
sonal  impulse  and  an  intellectual  inspiration  in  the 
lives  of  such  men  as  Clarke,  Channing,  Ripley, 
Greeley  and  Emerson. 

It  was  in  conversation  that  her  mind  found  freest 
play  and  most  congenial  occupation.  James  Free 
man  Clarke  says : 

"  She  did  many  things  well,  but  nothing  so  well 
as  she  talked.  For  some  reason  or  other  she  could 
never  deliver  herself  in  print  as  she  did  with  her  lips. 
Her  conversation  I  have  seldom  heard  equaled. 
Though  remarkably  fluent  and  select,  it  was  nei 
ther  fluency  nor  choice  diction,  nor  wit  nor  senti 
ment,  that  gave  it  its  peculiar  power ;  but  accuracy 
of  statement,  keen  discrimination,  and  a  certain 
weight  of  judgment,  which  contrasted  strongly  and 
charmingly  with  the  youth  and  sex  of  the  speaker." 

Emerson  says  of  her  evening  conversations,  when 
she  was  a  visitor  at  his  house : 

"They  interested  me  in  every  manner;  talent, 
memory,  wit,  stern  introspection,  poetic  play,  re 
ligion,  the  finest  personal  feeling,  the  aspects  of  the 
future ;  each  followed  each  in  full  activity,  and  left 
me,  I  remember,  enriched,  and  somewhat  astonished 
by  the  gifts  of  my  guest.  Her  topics  were  numerous, 
but  the  cardinal  points  of  poetry,  love  and  religion, 
were  never  far  off." 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  29 

-*• 

Possessed  of  this  wonderful  magnetic  power,  able 
to  startle,  charm  or  convince  at  will,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  her  friends  were  warmly  attached  to  her,  and 
she  to  them.  So  tender  was  her  affection  that  she 
made  her  friends'  souls  her  own,  and,  like  a  guardian 
genius,  identified  herself  with  their  fortunes.  She 
was  everywhere  a  welcome  guest.  Her  arrival  was  a 
holiday,  and  so  was  her  abode.  With  her  broad  web 
of  relations  to  so  many  noble  friends,  she  seemed  like 
the  queen  of  some  parliament  of  love,  who  carried 
the  key  to  all  confidences,  and  to  whom  every  ques 
tion  was  finally  referred ;  and  yet  there  was  so  much 
of  intellectual  aim  and  activity  breathed  through 
her  alliances,  as  to  give  a  dignity  to  them  all.  Chan- 
ning  says  of  her :  "  She  was  indeed  the  friend.  This 
was  her  vocation.  Into  whatever  home  she  entered, 
she  brought  a  benediction  of  truth,  justice,  tolerance 
and  honor.  She  knew,  if  not  by  experience,  then 
by  no  questionable  intuition,  how  to  interpret  the 
inner  life  of  every  man  and  woman,  and  by  inter 
preting  she  could  soothe  and  strengthen.  To 
associates,  her  presence  seemed  to  touch  even  com 
mon  scenes  and  daily  cares  with  splendor,  as  when, 
through  the  scud  of  a  rain-storm,  sunbeams  break 
from  serene  blue  openings,  crowning  familiar  things 
with  glory.  To  sustain  the  intimate  personal  rela 
tions  which  she  did  to  so  many  representative  men 
of  her  time,  was  a  higher  privilege  than  has  ever 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  other  American  woman. 

"  There  are  many  people  who  talk  as  if  there  were 
but  two  extremes  of  relation  which  woman  can.  sus- 


30  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

tain  to  man.  She  must  be  a  pretty,  tricky,  artful 
creature,  beguiling  him  of  his  reason,  taking  him 
captive  through  his  senses,  the  panderer  to  his 
pleasures,  at  once  his  tyrant  and  his  slave  ;  or  she 
must  arm  herself  against  him,  accuse  him,  abuse 
him,  as  at  once  the  sole  author  of  her  wrongs,  the 
source  of  all  her  miseries.  The  fair,  open  land  be 
tween  the  serene  and  sacred  land  of  friendship, 
where  men  and  women  may  meet  in  human  sym 
pathy,  in  kindred  pursuits,  in  wide  thoughts  and  in 
beneficent  action,  we  hear  constantly  spoken  of  as 
a  debatable,  if  not  an  impossible,  meeting-ground. 
It,  doubtless,  is  for  the  people  who  express  this 
opinion,  but  it  never  has  been,  and  never  will  be, 
for  those  men  and  women  who  recognize  and  revere 
in  each  other  the  equal  human  nature  which  each 
receive  from  God.  Always  man  needs  woman  to  be 
his  friend.  He  needs  her  clearer  vision,  her  subtler 
insight,  her  swifter  thought,  her  winged  soul,  her 
pure  and  tender  heart.  Always  woman  needs  man 
to  be  her  friend.  She  needs  the  vigor  of  his  pur 
pose,  the  ardor  of  his  will,  his  calmer  judgment,  his 
braver  force  of  action,  his  reverence  and  his  devo 
tion.  Thus  the  mystic  bond  of  sex,  which  binds 
one  half  the  universe  in  counterpart  and  balance  to 
the  other,  gives  even  to  the  friendship  of  man  and 
woman  its  finest  charm,  enabling  each,  only  through 
the  other,  to  preserve  the  perfect  equipoise  of  intel 
lect  and  soul.  Such  a  friend  was  Margaret  Fuller 
to  the  men  who  still  speak  her  name  with  reverent 
tenderness," 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  31 

As  a  writer,  she  was  critical  rather  than  creative. 
Her  published  works  are,  "  Summer  on  the  Lakes," 
"Papers  on  Literature  and  Art,"  "Woman  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century,"  and  more  valuable,  perhaps, 
than  either  of  these,  the  extracts  from  her  journals 
and  letters,  which  her  biographers  have  preserved. 
Her  last  and  greatest  work  perished  irrevocably  in 
the  wreck  which  closed  her  earthly  career ;  but  some 
idea  of  its  fire  and  force  can  be  gathered  from  pas 
sages  in  her  letters  from  Italy,  which  are  preserved 
and  presented  in  her  memoirs. 

Her  "  Papers  on  Literature  and  Art "  are  among 
the  most  valuable  contributions  to  American  criti 
cism.  Her  review  of  Longfellow's  poems  startled, 
if  it  did  not  convince,  the  world  of  letters ;  and  no 
one  has  ever  dissected  the  nature  and  stated  the 
effect  of  Byron's  poems,  with  so  clear  an  insight  and 
so  truthful  a  discrimination,  as  she  has  done.  It  is 
especially  interesting  to  note  the  estimation  in  which 
Margaret  Fuller  held  the  author  of  "  Childe  Harold," 
and  the  rank  among  poets  to  which  she  assigns  him. 

Byron's  life  was  both  a  tragedy  and  a  farce.  He 
was  essentially  an  actor.  A  vein  of  insincerity  per 
vades  all  his  poems.  His  thin  mask  of  levity  does 
not  hide  the  skepticism  which  lies  uneasy  and  sor 
rowful  beneath  it ;  nor  when  his  misanthropic  fit  is 
on  does  his  sorrow  strike  us  as  very  earnest  and 
real.  He  would  have  us  believe  that  his  richest 
wines  were  powdered  with  the  dust  of  graves;  yet 
he  frequently  took  more  of  that  wine  than  was  good 
for  him.  It  was  in  the  winter  of  1814,  while  dis- 


32  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

robing  after  balls,  haunted,  i-n  all  probability,  by 
eyes  in  whose  light  he  was  happy  enough,  that  he 
wrote  his  "  Lara,"  and  pictured  death  as 

"That  sleep  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least." 

This  was  meant  to  take  away  the  reader's  breath, 
and,  no  doubt,  after  penning  it,  Byron  betook  him 
self  to  bed  with  a  sense  of  supreme  cleverness ;  yet, 
contrasted  with  Shakspeare's  far-out-looking  and 
thought-heavy  lines,  where  death  is  represented  by 
the  same  image,  it  glitters  like  tinsel  instead  of  shin 
ing  like  gold. 

Margaret  Fuller  speaks  of  Byron's  poems  as  his 
torically  valuable  as  records  of  that  strange  malady, 
that  sickness  of  the  soul,  which  cankers  so  visibly 
the  rose  of  youth.  This  sickness  of  feeling  finds 
its  highest  water-mark  in  him.  He  has  lived  through 
this  experience  for  us  —  has  shown  that  the  natural 
fruits  of  indulgence  in  such  a  temper  are  not  to  be 
desired ;  and,  as  grief  loses  half  its  fascination  when 
we  find  that  others  have  endured  the  same  and  lived 
through  it,  so,  she  thinks  the  evil  has  been  greatly 
lessened  since  he  has  so  fully  illustrated  it.  This  is 
but  a  bold  exhibit  of  what  she  states  with  logical 
exactness  and  convincing  force. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  clearness  of  her  thought 
and  the  felicity  of  her  expression,  I  give  her  defini 
tion  of  an  epic,  as  contrasted  with  an  occasional 
poem : 

"  An  epic,  a  drama,  must  have  a  fixed  form  in  the 
mind  of  the  poet  from  the  first,  and  copious  draughts 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 


33 


of  ambrosia,  quaffed  in  the  heaven  of  thought ;  soft, 
fanning  gales,  and  bright  light  from  the  outward 
world,  give  muscle  and  bloom  —  that  is,  give  life  to 
the  skeleton.  But  occasional  poems  must  be  moods, 
and  a  mood  cannot  have  a  form  fixed  and  perfect, 
any  more  than  a  wave  of  the  sea." 

Margaret  Fuller  was  a  radical.  I  like  that  word 
radical.  It  stirs  the  blood  like  a  challenge  to  arms. 
The  radicals  are  the  trumpeters  of  truth.  They 
people  the  picket  lines  of  progress.  Margaret  Ful 
ler,  I  repeat,  was  a  radical  —  not  a  blind  iconoclast, 
ruthlessly  attacking  cherished  forms  and  customs 
which  have  crystallized  into  laws,  but  a  wise  prophet, 
who,  seeing  a  fairer  future  beckoning  to  us,  patiently 
but  persistently  strove  to  clasp  its  outstretched  hands. 
She  did  not  believe  that  customs  and  laws  were  set 
up  as  barriers  to  progress,  but  rather  that  they  are 
tents  of  a  night  upon  the  camping-ground  of  life,  to 
be  struck  whenever  truth  puts  the  bugle  to  her  lips 
and  sounds  an  advance.  Wrong,  though  rooted  in 
antiquity  and  fortified  by  innumerable  precedents, 
gained  no  homage  from  her ;  but  right  found  her  a 
faithful  follower,  however  few  its  followers  might  be. 
She  clearly  discerned  the  injustice  of  social  and  the 
iniquity  of  political  life,  and  the  fire  of  her  indigna 
tion  burned  fiercely  against  oppression  and  villainy 
in  every  form.  We  must  remember  that  many  of 
the  asperities  of  law  have  been  softened  in  the  last 
twenty-five  years;  that  when  she  talked  and  wrote 
the  sphere  of  woman  was  much  more  restricted  than 
now;  that  slavery  then  defiled  the  land  with  its 
3 


34  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

presence,  burdened  it  with  its  sin,  and  darkened  it 
with  the  gloom  of  threatened  disaster. 

None  saw  the  magnitude  of  legally  organized 
cruelty  more  clearly  than  she ;  none  had  a  firmer 
faith  that  the  day  of  deliverance  would  come.  She 
saw,  with  the  poet, 

"Right  forever  on  the  scaffold, 
Wrong  forever  on  the  throne." 

but  she  believed,  with  him, 

Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and  behind  the  dim  un 
known 

Standeth  GOD,  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his 
own. 

The  movement  called,  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
the  Woman's  Rights  movement,  found  one  of  its 
pioneers  and  its  most  powerful  champions  in  her. 
She  threw  down  the  gauntlet  with  an  air  of  knightly 
defiance.  Almost  alone  in  her  convictions,  she 
startled  timidity  and  shocked  conservatism  by  ex 
claiming  of  women,  "  Let  them  be  sea  captains,  if 
they  will."  Her  "Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen 
tury  "is  the  most  powerful  plea  which  has  ever  been 
made  for  putting  woman  on  a  par,  politically,  with 
man,  and  it  required  a  good  deal  of  valor  to  stand 
unmoved  amid  the  shower  of  public  squibs  and  pri 
vate  sneers  called  out  by  her  demand.  Now  it  is 
getting  fashionable  to  espouse  this  cause;  she  de 
fended  it  in  its  despised  infancy. 

More  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  she  wrote : 
"  Let  man  trust  woman  entirely,  and  give  her  every 


LUTE   TAYLOR  S  CHIP   BASKET.  35 

privilege  already  acquired  for  himself —  elective  fran 
chise,  tenure  of  property,  and  liberty  to  speak  in 
public  assemblies.  Nature  has  pointed  out  her 
ordinary  sphere  by  the  circumstances  of  her  physical 
existence.  If  here  and  there  the  gods  send  their 
missives  through  women  as  through  men,  let  them 
speak  without  'remonstrance.  *  *  * 

Neither  let  men  fear  to  lose  their  domestic  deities. 
Woman  is  born  for  love,  and  it  is  impossible  to  keep 
her  from  seeking  it.  Man  should  deserve  her  love 
as  an  inheritance,  rather  than  seize  and  guard  it  like 
a  prey." 

Others  may  have  felt  as  keenly  as  she  the  injustice 
to  woman,  imbedded  in  our  social  polity  and  ideas, 
but  there  was  no  other  one  so  fitted  by  thought,  by 
culture,  by  position,  and  by  fearlessness,  to  discuss 
the  subject  thoroughly  and  present  the  argument  in 
its  amplest  proportions.  Much  that  has  been  accom 
plished  in  enlarging  the  sphere  and  increasing  the 
opportunities  of  women,  is  justly  due  to  her  initial 
labors ;  and  now,  when  the  time  seems  to  be  ap 
proaching  when  woman  will  be  called  upon  calmly 
and  authoritatively  to  decide  for  herself  whether  the 
ballot  is  too  rude  and  perilous  a  weapon  for  her 
delicate  hand,  the  words  of  Margaret  Fuller  will  be 
consulted,  not  more  deferentially,  but  far  more 
widely,  than  they  have  hitherto  been. 

Candor  compels  me  to  confess  that  while  I  can 
not  break  the  force  of  her  logic  upon  this  subject, 
neither  can  I  accept  all  of  its  conclusions.  And,  I 
believe,  that  in  later  years,  when  a  husband  wore  her 


36  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

wifely  love  as  a  jewel,  and  her  low  lullaby  stilled 
the  clamor  of  her  baby  boy,  there  was  then  wrought 
in  her  philosophy  something  of  the  change  which 
was  wrought  in  Tennyson's  "  Princess,"  when  love, 
the  magician,  touched  her  with  his  all-conquering 
wand. 

A  woman  without  religion  is  a  star  without  radi 
ance —  a  flower  without  perfume.  It  is  interesting, 
therefore,  to  note  the  religious  character  of  Margaret 
Fuller. 

I  think  I  have  never  read  of  a  person  more  pro 
foundly  religious  than  she.  Her  journals,  her  letters 
and  her  life  are  full  of  humility,  piety  and  prayer. 
The  fact  that  she  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Emer 
son,  that  she  was  closely  connected  with  the  move 
ments  of  the  Transcendentalists  in  New  England  — 
that  for  two  years  she  edited  the  "  Dial,"  the  organ 
of  that  party  —  led  a  good  many  good  orthodox 
people  to  doubt  the  soundness  of  Her  religious  ex 
perience.  A  transcendentalist  she  was,  in  the  full 
meaning  of  the  word.  Her  religion  did  indeed 
transcend  the  religion  of  commoner  and  meaner 
minds.  She  was  a  "pilgrim  from  the  idolatrous 
world  of  creeds  and  rituals,  to  the  temple  of  the 
living  God  in  the  soul."  "The  peaceful  benediction 
of  heaven  sounded  forth  to  her  in  flowers  and  stars ; 
in  the  poetry,  art  and  heroism  of  all  ages ;  in  the 
aspirations  of  her  own  spirit,  and  in  the  budding 
promise  of  the  time."  That  religion  which  looks 
reverently  to  God,  and  lovingly  upon  man  —  that 
religion  which  cares  for  the  temporal  as  well  as  the 


LUTE   TAYLOR  S  CHIP   BASKET.  37 

eternal  good  of  our  fellows  —  that  religion  which 
permeates  every  path  of  life,  and  sheds  a  sacred 
light  on  every  duty  —  that  religion  which  knows  the 
sorrow  that  ever  springs  from  earth  and  feels  the 
consolation  which  descends  to  meet  it  from  above 
—  that  religion  which  walks  the  ways  of  life  in  close 
companionship  with  the  invisible  form  of  one  like 
unto  the  Son  of  Man;  that  religion  was  Margaret 
Fuller's.  Horace  Greeley  says  of  her :  "  I  never 
met  another  being  in  whom  the  aspiring  hope  of 
immortality  was  so  strengthened  into  profoundest 
conviction.  She  did  not  believe  in  a  future  and  un 
ending  state  of  existence  —  she  knew  it,  and  lived  in 
the  full  splendor  of  its  dawning  light." 

In  the  spring  of  1846,  rich  in  experiences,  rich 
in  culture,  and  rich  in  friends,  heralded  by  her 
reputation  as  a  scholar  and  writer,  Margaret  de 
parted  for  Europe.  She  was  cordially  received  in 
England,  and  found  ready  access  to  such  society  as 
that  of  Wordsworth,  DeQuincy,  Dr.  Chalmers,  Car- 
lyle,  Mary  Howitt,  Joanna  Baillie,  and  others  like 
them.  Here,  too,  she  first  met  Joseph  Mazzini,  the 
Washington  of  Italy,  and  here  began  that  acquaint 
ance  which,  amidst  the  subsequent  storms  of  the 
Italian  revolution,  ripened  into  congenial  confidence 
and  sacred  trust. 

In  December  she  went  to  Paris,  where  the  best 
literary  society  was  open  to  her,  and  she  became  the 
friend  of  George  Sand  and  Berenger.  Here  she 
had  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  the  great 
actress,  Rachel,  and  her  criticisms  are  almost  as 


38 

grand  as  a  tragedy.  She  says  of  Rachel's  eye  :  "  It 
was  magnificent  to  see  the  dark  cloud  give  out  such 
sparks,  each  one  fit  to  deal  a  separate  death." 

In  May,  1847,  she  went  to  Rome.  She  was  warmly 
welcomed  by  the  distinguished  Americans  resident 
there,  and  found  easy  access  to  the  best  native 
society. 

Here  a  new  world  opened  to  her.  From  infancy 
the  Roman  character  had  been  the  object  of  her 
admiration.  Rome  was  to  her  a  magic  word.  The 
Roman  was  an  emperor.  The  dignity  of  command, 
the  inflexible  purpose  of  will,  was  stamped  upon  him. 

Here  in  the  most  obscure  places  the  spirits  of  the 
mighty  dead  crowded  upon  her ;  here  the  old  kings, 
the  consuls,  the  emperors,  the  warriors  of  eagle  eye 
and  remorseless  beak  returned  to  her ;  the  toga-clad 
procession  swept  across  the  scene ;  innumerable 
temples  glittered,  and  the  Via  Sacra  swarmed  with 
triumphal  life  once  more.  Here,  too,  a  new  world 
of  love  opened  to  her,  and  she  found  that 

"Tradition,  snowy-bearded,  leaned 
On  romance,  ever  young." 

Going,  one  evening,  with  a  party  of  friends,  to 
attend  vespers  at  St.  Peter's,  at  the  close  of  the  ser 
vice  she  became  separated  from  her  companions. 
After  anxiously  seeking  for  them  some  time,  she  was 
accosted  by  a  young  Italian,  who  politely  asked  if  he 
could  assist  her.  Failing  to  find  her  friends,  he  went 
to  call  a  cab,  but  they  had  all  departed,  and  he  ac 
companied  her  home.  That  courtly  stranger  was 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  39 

OSSOLI,  and,  a  short  time  after,  Margaret  became  his 
bride.  Ossoli  was  of  princely  lineage,  his  family 
being  one  of  the  oldest  in  Rome.  Himself  a  Liberal, 
his  brothers  were  in  the  papal  service.  His  father 
was  dead,  and  the  estate  was  unsettled.  Ossoli 
wished  to  keep  the  marriage  a  secret  until  his  affairs 
were  arranged,  lest  the  fact  of  his  union  with  a  Prot 
estant  should  deprive  him  of  his  property. 

Margaret,  some  time  after,  removed  to  Rieti,  where 
she  became  a  mother.  Of  her  child,  the  boy  Angelo, 
it  would  be  almost  profane  to  repeat  her  words  of 
praise.  Of  Ossoli,  she  says,  "  He  is  capable  of  the 
sacred  love  —  the  love  passing  that  of  woman.  He 
has  shown  it  to  his  father,  to  Rome  and  to  me." 

Meanwhile  the  war-cloud  broke,  and  the  revolution 
of  1848  arrested  the  attention  of  the  world.  Of 
that  lost  struggle  of  Italy,  she  might  not  merely  say, 
with  the  Grattan  of  Ireland's  kindred  effort  half  a 
century  earlier,  "  I  stood  by  its  cradle  —  I  followed 
its  hearse,"  but  she  might  fairly  claim  to  hav«  been 
a  portion  of  its  incitement,  its  animation,  its  inform 
ing  soul.  Her  husband  was  an  officer  in  the  Repub 
lican  army,  and  she  bore  more  than  a  woman's  part 
in  its  conflicts  and  its  perils.  Whether  in  council 
chamber  with  the  chiefs,  or  in  hospital  wards  with 
the  dying,- she  was  always  helpful,  untiring,  resolute 
and  brave ;  and  when  at  last,  through  the  perfidy  of 
a  traitorous  government,  the  dearest  hopes  of  the 
people  were  drowned  in  blood,  there  was  no  heart 
more  lofty  in  its  defiance,  no  voice  more  eloquent  in 
its  exposure  of  the  villainy,  than  her  own. 


40  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

Weary  in  spirit,  with  the  deep  disappointments  of 
the  past  year  weighing  heavily  upon  her,  she  spent 
the  winter  of  1849-50  in  Florence.  Here  she  was 
surrounded  by  a  pleasant  circle  of  American  and 
English  friends,  and  the  last  months  of  her  Italian 
life  were  cheered  by  all  the  light  that  the  presence 
of  husband  and  boy  and  the  companionship  of  gifted 
and  noble  natures  could  afford. 

Here  she  wrote  of  Mazzini :  "  Mazzini  is  immor 
tally  dear  to  me  —  a  thousand  times  dearer  for  all 
the  trial  I  saw  made  of  him  at  Rome  —  dearer  for 
all  that  he  suffered.  Many  of  his  brave  friends  per 
ished  there.  We  who,  less  worthy,  survive,  would 
fain  make  up  for  the  loss  by  our  increased  devotion 
to  him  —  the  purest,  the  most  disinterested  of  patri 
ots,  the  most  affectionate  of  brothers." 

Beneath  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  Republic  many 
private  fortunes  were  swallowed  up;  and  among 
them  was  Ossoli's,  and  he  and  Margaret  decided  to 
come  to  America. 

Many  motives  conspired  to  draw  Margaret  back 
to  her  native  land.  There  was  heart-weariness  at 
the  great  reaction  in  Europe,  desire  of  publishing 
her  history  of  Italy  —  the  fruit  of  her  maturest 
thought  —  to  the  best  advantage,  and  thereby  doing 
justice  to  great  principles  and  brave  men,  and  the 
desire  to  be  once  more  with  youthful  associates  and 
family  friends. 

On  the  i yth  of  May,  1850,  they  embarked  on  the 
ship  Elizabeth. 

She  trusted  soon  to  greet  loved  ones  on  these 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  4* 

western  shores.     Alas!  she  knew  not  that  another 
way  was  opened  for  her  — 

"To  God's  Eden-land,  unknown." 

The  captain  of  the  vessel  was  a  model  New 
England  sailor,  calm,  courteous,  brave;  and  his 
young  wife,  who  was  with  him,  was  a  lady,  gentle 
and  refined. 

They  had  been  at  sea  but  a  short  time  when  the 
captain  died  of  a  malignant  fever.  Margaret's  boy 
also  sickened,  but  at  length  recovered,  and  sobered 
and  saddened  they  could  again  hope,  and  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  sea  and  sky.  Margaret  comforts  the  sor 
rowing  widow,  puts  the  last  touches  to  her  book  on 
Italy,  and  sings  and^ plays  with  her  happy  boy. 

At  noon  on  the  i8th  of  July,  the  Elizabeth  was 
off  the  Jersey  coast,  and  the  officer  in  command 
promised  the  passengers  he  would  land  them  at  New 
York  in  the  morning.  The  weather  was  thick,  the 
breeze  strengthened  into  a  tempest,  the  vessel  made 
way  with  a  rapidity  no  one  dreamed  of,  and  about 
4  o'clock  in  the  morning,  she  struck  Fire  Island 
beach,  off  the  shore  of  Long  Island. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  excite  your  feelings  by  a  de 
scription  of  the  awful  scene  which  followed.  The 
captain's  widow  and  a  few  of  the  sailors  were  saved; 
but  the  chivalric  husband,  the  excelling  wife  and  the 
promising  boy  were  swallowed  up  by  the  hungry  sea. 
When  last  seen,  Margaret  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of 
the  foremast,  still  clad  in  her  nightdress,  with  her 
hair  fallen  loose  about  her  shoulders. 


42  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

A  great  wave  swept  over  the  ship.     It  was  over 

—  that  communion  face  to  face  with  death !     It  was 

over  — and   the  prayer  was  granted,  that   "Ossoli, 

Angelo  and  I  may  go  together,  and  that  the  anguish 

may  be  brief." 

This,  then,  O  noble  woman !  was  thy.  welcome 
home.  Instead  of  the  clasp  of  affection  and  the 
kiss  of  love  — instead  of  high  hopes  realized  and 
large  ambitions  filled,  there  was  an  idle  lifeboat,  a 
howling  hurricane  and  a  pitiless  sea. 

Truly,  "He  maketh  darkness  his  pavilion  round 
about  him  —  dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of  the 
skies." 

But,  though  those  clouds  were  tempest-torn  and 
black  with  death,  we  may  yet  fain  believe  that  their 
tops  were  golden  in  the  sun,  and  through  their  broken 
rifts  we  can  almost  see  the  splendor  shining,  and 
hear  a  voice  descending,  saying  with  angelic  accents, 
"ALL  is  LOST  ;  BUT  ALL  is  WON." 


THE  CHIP  BASKET. 


[The  most  interesting  department  of  Lute  Taylor's  paper, 
and  the  one  in  which  he  took  the  greatest  pride,  and  loved 
most  to  labor,  was  his  "Chip  Basket."  Here  is  what  he  said 
when  he  set  it  out  for  the  first  time,  and  asked  his  readers  to 
assist  in  filling  it,  and  test  the  flavor  of  its  good  cheer  :] 


are  not  useless.  The  hewer  cleaves  them 
off,  thinking  only  of  the  timber  which  assumed 
desired  form  by  their  removal,  and  the  chopper 
thoughtlessly  spins  them  from  his  gleaming  axe  — 
yet  they  have  a  value  of  their  own.  There  is  bless 
ing  and  brightness  in  them.  They  glow  cheerily  in 
comfortable  homes,  and  bring  warmth  to  shivering 
squalor's  scanty  hearth. 

Here  we  shall  endeavor,  week  by  week,  to  pick 
up  the  chips  which  the  writers  toss  off  at  their  toil, 
and  make  a  pleasant  warmth  around  which  our 
readers  will  love  to  gather. 

Pleasant  paragraphs,  little  poems,  bits  of  sentiment, 
reverie,  philosophy,  and  speculation  —  fruits  gathered 
from  spice  islands,  passed  in  the  sea  of  reading  — 
these  will  be  gathered  here,  to  be  enjoyed,  we  trust, 
by  those  who  read. 

Every  newspaper  reader  knows  there  are  favorite 
paragraphs  which  he  meets  with  continually.  They 


44  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

lead  a  curious,  wandering  life,  sometimes  going 
abroad  triumphantly  on  the  broad  pages  of  a  metro 
politan  paper,  with  an  editorial  preface,  like  a  herald, 
to  announce  their  presence,  and  again  nestling  unre 
marked  in  the  narrow  columns  of  some  obscure  and 
struggling  sheet.  Their  authorship  may  be  forgotten, 
their  history  unknown,  but  their  life  is  assured. 
Broad  and  catholic  in  feeling,  they  depend  on 
neither  time  nor  place  for  interest,  but  speak  to  the 
universal  heart  of -man.  The  melody  of  the  breeze 
and  the  light  of  the  stars,  the  beauty  of  day  and  the 
grandeur  of  night  are  in  them,  and  they  pass  sentinel 
editors  unchallenged,  and  keep  their  place  in  news- 
.  paper  columns  by  inherent  right.  Many  such  we 
hope  to  gather  and  present  in  due  season. 

And  the  Chip  Basket  is  wide,  and  will  never  be 
full.  Our  friends  are  invited  to  assist  in  the  gath 
ering.  Around  it  will  be  the  flavor  of  good  cheer, 
of  healthy  sentiment,  of  kindly  feeling,  of  a  humor 
that  may  sparkle  but  will  not  sting. 

RELIGION  is  the  final  center  of  repose,  the  goal  to 
which  all  things  tend,  apart  from  which  man  is  a 
shadow,  his  very  existence  a  riddle,  and  the  stu 
pendous  scenes  of  nature  which  surround  him  as 
unmeaning  as  the  leaves  which  the  sibyl  scattered 
in  the  wind. 

MEDITATION  is  to  life  what  ballast  is  to  a  ship  — 
to  go  safe  and  steady  we  must  sometimes  stop  and 
think. 


LUTE   TAYLOR  S  CHIP    BASKET.  45 

MIRAGE. 

[Extract  from  a  letter  to  a  friend.] 

In  the  days  long  ago,  Frank,  when  you  and  I  sat 
on  hard  benches  at  the  district  school  house,  wig 
gling  on  our  seats  like  the  fat  worms  which  we 
impaled  on  our  fish-hooks  in  the  holidays  —  in  those 
days  when  we  studied  Olney,  we  were  taught  that 
mirage  was  located  on  the  great  deserts.  You  re 
member  how  our  boyish  wonder  was  excited  by  the 
story  of  the  travelers  in  the  desert,  weary,  worn, 
seeking  vainly  for  the  saving  spring,  tortured  beyond 
endurance  by  the  hellish  agonies  of  burning  thirst, 
and  how  to  their  longing  eyes  there  would  sometimes 
come  a  vision  beautiful  as  Paradise,  a  vision  of  cool 
ing  waters,  of  greenness  and  umbrage,  and  their 
eyes  were  lighted  with  new  hope,  and  their  weary 
feet  strengthened  with  new  vigor,  as  they  pushed  on 
toward  the  promised  relief.  But  the  taunting  vision 
eludes  their  search,  the  mocking,  impalpable  oasis 
flees  imperceptibly  before  them,  and  at  last  the  cruel 
conviction  is  forced  upon  them  that  the  pleasing 
picture  is  a  phantom  —  and  the  horrid  thirst  burns 
fiercer,  and  the  heart  sinks  in  a  deeper  despair.  This 
is  mirage. 

But  the  geographer  forgot  to  tell  us,  what  is  equally 
true  —  that  more  mirage  hangs  deceitfully  about 
political  capitals  than  desert  travelers  ever  saw.  The 
hopes  which  cluster  around  these  places  are  none 
the  less  high,  the  pursuit  is  none  the  less  careful  and 


46  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

intent,  the  disappointment  is  none  the  less  bitter,  the 
despair  is  none  the  less  crushing  and  complete. 

A  man  with  compelling  purpose,  with  tireless  brain 
and  an  honorable  ambition,  fixes  his  heart  on  a  de 
sired  place.  Month  after  month  and  year  after  year 
he  toils  with  indomitable  perseverance,  and  unflag 
ging  zeal.  At  length  the  looked-for  time  arrives. 
Hopeful,  almost  exultant,  he  is  sanguine  of  success, 
but  a  line  from  the  executive,  or  the  silent  fall  of 
bits  of  paper,  and  the  prize  struggled  for  with  manly 
strength,  coveted  with  intense  desire,  eludes  his 
grasp,  and  the  burning  sands  press  not  more  piti 
lessly  the  blistered  feet  of  the  desert  traveler  than 
the  world  looks  pitilessly  upon  the  disappointment 
which  has  thwarted  the  cherished  purpose  of  his 
life. 

But  not  to  political  life  alone  does  mirage  lend  its 
deceptive  arts.  The  business  man  is  often  its  victim ; 
and  over  all  the  sky  of  youth  it  hangs  its  rosy  colors, 
its  pleasing  tints,  its  glowing  pictures  of  coming  joys. 
The  maiden,  in  the  beauty  and  purity  of  a  dawning 
womanhood,  looks  forward  to  a  happy  life  of  love, 
but 

"The  cloud  lands  still  before  her  lay, 
The  mirage  looms  across  her  way;" 

and  the  boy,  eager  for  manhood,  with  its  toils  and 
triumphs,  looks  forward  to  a  goal  which  he  may 
never  reach  —  a  prize  he  may  never  win. 

Blessed  are  they  whose  undoubting  faith  survives 
all  disappointments,  and  from  before  whose  hopeful 
eyes  the  mirage  never  fades  away. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  47 

But  when  we  look,  Frank,  to  the  rest  beyond, 
where  faith  shall  find  its  fulfillment,  hope  its  fruition, 
and  love  its  reward — when  we  look  over  to  that 
other  shore  of  life  —  perhaps  wishing  to  be  there, 
yet  shrinking  from  the  passage  —  when  a  vision  of 
the  loveliness  of  that  land  cools  the  fever,  and  calms 
the  strife  of  our  daily  lives,  can  it  be  that  the  beauty 
which  beckons  us,  and  the  smiling  joys  which  reach 
out  welcoming  hands,  are  like  the  fair  delusions  here 
—  a  mirage  and  a  cheat  ? 

I  do  not  believe  it ;  and  trusting  that  you,  my  boy, 
may*  find,  at  last,  that  the  mirage  of  life  here  is  but 
a  reflection  from  the  reality  of  life  hereafter,  I  am 
very  truly  yours. 

A  NICKNAME.  —  The  man  who  has  won  a  nick 
name  and  wears  it  gracefully,  has  the  elements  of 
popularity  about  him.  The  same  instinct  which 
leads  a  mother  to  apply  diminutive  phrases  of  en 
dearment  to  her  little  ones  is  a  universal  instinct, 
one  which  we  never  outgrow,  and  which  continually 
manifests  itself  in  our  form  of  addressing  or  speak 
ing  of  those  we  love,  trust  or  admire. 

The  man  who  is  known  in  his  village  or  neighbor 
hood  as  "Uncle"  is  never  a  cold,  crabbed  or  selfish 
character.  He  is  sure  to  have  a  generous  heart,  and 
wear  a  cheerful  smile — -  there  is  integrity  in  him 
which  men  trust,  and  warmth  around  him  which 
little  children  love  to  gather,  and  the  term  is  a  title 
of  honor — more  to  be  desired  than  that  of  "honor 
able." 


48  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

FAT.  —  He  is  grand,  stupendous,  magnificent,  sub 
lime.  In  his  imposing  presence,  in  the  great  shadow 
of  his  rotund  form,  we  are  humility  itself. 

He  is  bigness  personified. 

He  says  his  size  and  weight  are  a  little  unhandy. 
In  sultry  weather  he  feels  too  warm. 

He  used  to  walk  up  the  steps  into  his  office,  but 
it  has  become  too  dangerous.  At  present  he  is 
brought  from  his  house  on  a  dray,  lifted  into  the 
office  with  a  derrick,  and  handled  during  the  day 
with  a  cant-hook. 

He  was  elected  alderman.  His  ward  is  entitled 
to  but  three,  and  the  other  two  have  resigned. 

He  is  taxed  as  real  estate.  The  city  assessor  re 
cently  had  him  surveyed  and  platted,  and  he  figured 
up  six  forties  and  several  out-lots. 

He  is  very  large. 

His  wife  has  to  get  a  new  marriage  certificate 
every  little  while,  in  order  to  keep  her  title  to  him 
perfect,  and  we  fear  she  may  be  guilty  of  bigamy  in 
being  married  to  so  much  of  mankind. 

He  really  is  fat. 

He  is  growing  rapidly. 

THERE  is  no  traveler  equal  to  a  good  newspaper 
paragraph.  Dr.  Livingstone  is  not  a  circumstance 
in  comparison.  It  gets  lost  and  found,  gets  killed 
and  revived,  has  its  head  taken  off  and  a  head  put 
on,  goes  farther  and  often  fares  worse  than  any  ad 
venturer  since  the  return  of  the  heroes  from  the 
siege  of  Troy. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET  49 


LOST   MOTION. 

A  few  days  since  we  were  talking  with  a  skillful 
workman  about  repairing  a  large,  valuable  and  com 
plex  piece  of  machinery.  The  practised  eye  of  the 
quiet  worker  in  iron  readily  discovered  the  causes  of 
the  defects  of  the  great  machine,  and  he  expressed 
his  perfect  ability  to  remove  them.  Among  other 
things,  he  said  that  the  "  lost  motion  must  be  taken 
up." 

After  the  business  was  over  we  fell  to  thinking  of 
his  words,  and  wondering  if  most  men  and  women 
—  like  deranged  machinery — did  not  need  to  have 
lost  motion  taken  up.  The  young  man,  starting  in 
life  with  correct  habits  and  good  resolutions,  yields 
step  by  step  to  the  fascinations  of  indulgence  and 
the  seductions  of  sin,  until  every  one  sees  that  his 
moral  powers  have  lost  motion,  which  sadly  needs 
to  be  taken  up. 

The  man  of  middle  life,  whose  trained  and  expe 
rienced  powers  are  left  to  relax  in  idleness,  or  are 
used  only  for  trifling,  selfish,  or  unworthy  purposes, 
has  lost  motion,  and  falls  fearfully  short  of  accom 
plishing  the  good  which  by  nature  he  was  fitted  to 
do.  The  woman  who,  moving  queen-like  amid  luxu 
rious  surroundings,  or  creating  and  sharing  the  com 
forts  of  a  modest  home,  permits  that  home  to  be  the 
boundary  of  her  sympathies  and  care,  and  centers 
all  her  thought  upon  her  own  adornment,  her  pleas 
ure,  or  her  pride,  unmindful  of  the  pleading  voices 
4 


50  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

of  the  poor,  of  the  varied  and  innumerable  forms 
which  want  and  woe  are  constantly  assuming,  and 
which  forever  hem  us  in  —  she  has  lost  motion  in 
life,  and,  beautiful  and  radiant  as  she  may  be,  falls 
far  short  of  being  the  earthly  angel  which  it  is  her 
privilege  and  duty  to  become.  When  we  descend 
to  lower  grades  of  life,  when  blear-eyed  vice  and 
angry-visaged  crime  skulk  in  darkness,  or  deface  the 
day,  we  find  sights  sadder  still  —  ruins  awful  and 
complete. 

The  paralyzed  conscience,  the  infirm  will,  and  the 
unfeeling  heart,  are  all  indications  of  lost  motion 
in  life.  Churches  and  chapels,  lecture  rooms  and 
schools  are  workshops  to  which  poor  humanity  re 
pairs  for  the  betterment  of  its  condition  —  the  resto 
ration  of  the  motion  lost.  How  effective  these 
agencies  are,  how  many  leave  the  church  or  chapel 
with  feelings  freshened,  with  conscience  quickened, 
with  faith  strengthened,  with  purpose  invigorated,, 
and  all  the  beauty  and  power  and  tension  of  life 
restored,  it  is  not  our  purpose  to  inquire  now. 

GIT  AND  GUMPTION.  —  There  are  certain  quali 
ties  of  mind  and  character  which,  "  down  east,"  are 
described  by  the  expressivevwords  "git"  and  "gump 
tion"  "  Git,"  we  take  it,  means  a  certain  irresistible 
promptness  and  energy ;  and  "  gumption  "  a  peculiar 
winning  tact,  something  even  better  than  industry 
and  surer  than  genius.  When  "git"  and  "gump 
tion  "  are  combined  the  result  is  certain  success. 


LUTE    TAYLORS    CHIP    BASKET.  51 


TO  A  BOY  EDITOR. 

[The  following  is  a  letter  written  to  Victor  Welch,  of 
Madison,  Wisconsin,  who,  at  the  time  the  letter  was  written 
was  under  ten  years  of  age,  yet  published  a  small  paper  at 
his  father's  residence :] 

MASTER  VICTOR  JOHN  WELCH  : 

A  visit  to  the  office  of  the  "Home  Diary,"  and 
the  perusal  of  its  files  —  a  valued  present  from  your 
father — has  given  me  the  ambition  to  write  a  letter 
for  its  pages,  and  thus  join  the  choice  circle  of  your 
contributors. 

A  printing  office  in  a  gentleman's  private  residence, 
with  an  editor  whose  years  are  expressed  by  a  single 
figure,  is  at  least  an  anomaly ;  but,  in  future  years, 
when  your  pleased  eye  shall  look  over  the  pages  of 
the  "  Diary,"  you  will  find,  that  although  small  in  di 
mensions,  in  sprightliness  of  fancy,  in  incisive  thought, 
in  pungent  criticism,  it  fairly  rivals  more  ambitious 
sheets. 

The  types  are  wonderful  things,  Victor,  and  if,  in 
learning  to  form  them  into  lines  and  marshal  them 
into  columns,  you  also  learn  to  use  that  wonderful 
instrument  of  power,  the  English  language,  with 
ease  and  accuracy  and  vigor,  you  will  find  that  your 
father  has  given  you  a  better  "  start  in  life  "  than  if 
he  had  endowed  you  with  stocks  and  bonds,  or  made 
you  the  owner  of  vast  estates.  Your  name  appears 
as  editor  of  a  paper  at  an  age  when  a  less  favored 


52  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

boy  would  perhaps  feel  the  first  promptings  of  am 
bition  to  secure  this  distinction.  In  maturer  years 
you  will  more  fully  appreciate  this  honor,  and  will 
perhaps  translate  into  fact  what  is  now  a  pleasing 
fiction. 

In  my  boyhood  I  often  stood  on  the  wharves  of 
one  of  our  seaboard  cities  and  saw  the  great  ships 
depart  for  far-off  lands,  and  as  they  boldly  stood  out 
upon  the  waste  of  waters,  I  wondered  whether  the 
cruel,  roaring,  hungry  sea  would  swallow  them  up, 
or  whether,  after  many  months,  they  would  return, 
bringing  wealth  to  their  possessors,  and  happiness  to 
waiting  hearts.  Just  so,  Victor,  does  a  thoughtful 
man  regard  a  boy  who  is  playing  on  the  margin  of 
that  sea  of  life  across  which  he  must  boldly  steer. 

"It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  him  down, 
It  may  be  he  will  reach  the  Happy  Isles." 

None  make  the  voyage  in  unbroken  sunshine. 
Storms  will  come,  my  boy,  but  Will  and  Work  are 
faithful  pilots,  and  will  bring  you  safely  through. 

In  the  years  of  your  manhood,  which  is  to  come, 
you  will  find  that  great  hopes  will  die,  great  faiths 
will  be  wrecked,  great  loves  will  be  misdirected  and 
misplaced.  But  you  will  also  find  that  man  is  not 
the  powerless  slave  of  nature  or  passion ;  if  he  cannot 
imperatively  rule,  he  can,  at  least,  partially  control 
them  both.  The  sun  goes  down,  but  we  light  our 
lamps  and  make  a  circle  of  brightness  in  the  wide- 
surrounding  and  close-pressing  night ;  and  so,  when 
the  death  of  a  great  hope  or  the  wrecking  of  a  great 


53 

faith  darken's  life  with  love's  eclipse,  we  may  yet 
make  it  comfortable  and  serene  by  the  aid  of  smaller 
joys,  of  lesser  faiths,  of  homely  duties  faithfully  per 
formed. 

It  is  easy  to  be  advisory,  Victor,  and  if  this  letter 
is  didactic  in  its  character,  it  will  be  but  the  common 
fault  of  men  when  writing  to  the  young. 

Your  parents  and  teachers  will  impress  on  you  the 
necessity  of  forming  correct  habits,  but  it  is  desirable 
that  you  early  appreciate  the  almost  omnipotent 
power  of  a  habit  when  once  it  has  obtained  control 
of  a  man.  I  was  once  riding  on  a  train  of  cars  over 
a  long  reach  of  level  prairie.  Standing  on  the  front 
platform  of  the  rear  car,  the  train  running  as  if  furies 
fed  its  fires,  I  noticed  with  surprise  that  the  coupling 
which  joined  this  car  to  the  next  was  slack,  and  the 
car  itself  actually  pushing  on  those  before  it.  Only 
at  intervals  would  the  iron  links  straighten  and  the 
car  feel  the  force  of  the  ponderous  engine  which 
drew  the  train.  You  see,  Victor,  the  car  had  got  a 
habit  of  running — it  had  gathered  momentum,  and 
the  same  force  which  had  put  it  in  motion  would  have 
been  powerless  to  arrest  its  course.  Now,  habit  is 
simply  momentum  in  a  given  direction  of  life.  Its 
beginnings  are  slight,  but  its  gathered,  cumulative 
strength  is  almost  beyond  conception  or  belief.  No 
rule  can  measure  its  force,  no  calculus  determine  its 
limit,  no  law  control  its  power.  It  is  a  strong,  impe 
rious  giant.  It  binds  its  victims  with  chains  softer 
than  silk,  but  stronger  than  steel.  Impalpable,  un 
seen,  its  power  can  fitly  be  compared  to  that  invisible 


54  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

law  of  gravitation  which  binds  the  universe  of  God 
together,  and  controls  the  courses  of  the  wandering 
worlds.  One  may  well  be  awed  in  the  presence  of 
such  power,  and  if  you  can  but  feebly  estimate  its 
strength,  you  will  not  need  be  admonished  to  be 
careful  what  habits  you  form. 

As  you  grow  older,  Victor,  you  will  be  surprised 
at  the  paltry  nature  of  the  topics  which  engross 
many  men's  thoughts  and  fill  their  speech.  The 
husks  on  which  the  Prodigal  Son  had  nearly  starved, 
were  opulence  itself  compared  to  the  mental  pabulum 
on  which  so  many  fill  their  dwarfed,  distorted  minds. 
The  small  talk,  the  neighborhood  gossip,  the  retailing 
of  rumors,  the  rehearsal  of  unimportant  events,  the 
surmises  and  the  speculations  about  other  people's 
plans  and  purposes  —  these  absorb  the  mental  life  of 
very  many,  and  are  at  once  the  indication  and  the 
cause  of  barrenness  of  soul  and  poverty  of  mind. 
To  the  small  things  of  your  own  life,  and  the  lives 
of  those  with  whom  you  live,  give  careful  attention, 
for  they  are  the  friction  in  the  machinery  of  life,  but 
let  the  deluge  of  small  talk  which  will  surround  you 
be  as  powerless  to  arrest  your  attention  or  disturb 
your  repose,  as  the  hail  beating  against  closed  blinds, 
is  impotent  to  invade  the  security  of  the  room 
within. 

Another  thing  you  will  remember,  Victor,  that 
character  is  the  most  valuable  part  of  a  man.  It  is 
richer  than  wealth,  better  than  brilliancy,  grander 
than  intellect.  It  is  the  besetting  sin  of  youth  to 
worship  mere  intellectual  power.  You  will  guard 


LUTE    TAYLOR  S   CHIP    BASKET.  55 

against  the  fascination  of  this  fault.  A  firmly  estab 
lished  character  is  the  only  sure  base  on  which  a 
noble  superstructure  can  be  reared.  Great  intel 
lectual  brilliancy  or  power,  divorced  from  moral 
worth,  is  like  a  marble  shaft  resting  on  shifting  sand 
—  in  the  first  tempest  it  will  be  overthrown,  and  lie 
soiled  upon  the  earth  above  which  it  should  rise. 
History  and  your  own  observation  will  teach  you 
that  the  lives  of  many  of  the  most  highly  gifted  are 
valuable  only  as  beacon  lights  to  warn  others  of  the 
ruin  in  which  they  have  been  engulfed.  A  man 
without  character  often  achieves  a  seeming  success, 
but  his  triumph  is  transitory.  Like  the  ungodly  man 
mentioned  in  Scripture,  "Yet  a  little  while  and  he 
shall  be  clean  gone  ;  thou  shalt  look  after  his  place, 
and  he  shall  be  away."  A  man  with  compelling  brain, 
with  generous  impulse  and  ready  sympathy,  with  no 
taint  of  meanness  soiling  his  life,  no  canker  of  deceit 
festering  in  his  soul,  whose  convictions  have  crys 
tallized  into  character,  whose  frank  and  fearless  eye 
beams  a  benediction  on  all  of  beauty  and  truth,  and 
flashes  scorn  on  all  of  falsehood  and  pretense  —  such 
a  man  is  the  "  noblest  work  of  God." 

That  you,  Victor,  may  become  such  a  man,  each 
day  conferring  blessing  and  enjoying  content,  until 
the  last  day  shall  come,  and  you  pass  to  the  "  other 
side  of  life,"  where 

"Quiet  reigns,  and  brings  to  brain  and  breast 
The  benediction  of  unbroken  rest," 

is  the  sincere  wish  of  your  friend. 


56  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

WOMAN'S  RIGHTS.  —  Philosophers  will  some  day 
be  called  upon  to  decide  why  it  is  that  the  cause  of 
"Woman's  Rights,"  which  drags  so  painfully  in  the 
old  and  thickly-settled  East,  has  won  its  only  signal 
victories  in  the  West.  We  lack  the  courage,  even  if 
we  had  the  ability,  to  offer  any  suggestions  toward 
the  solution  of  this  question.  We  know,  of  course, 
that  the  light-minded  and  unreflecting  would  say 
that  it  is  because  in  the  East  the  women  outnumber 
the  men,  while  in  the  West  that  position  is  reversed ; 
but  we  are  too  well  disciplined  to  say  anything  of 
the  kind  —  for  that  sort  of  statement  implies  too 
grossly  that  the  divinest  half  of  creation  is  only 
fully  appreciated  when  it  makes  itself  very  scarce. 
The  weasel  shall  be  entrapped  in  deep  slumber 
before  our  cautious  pen  assumes  the  guilt  of  such 
villainy  !  But  the  fact  remains,  and  some  day  it  will 
puzzle  the  wiseacres. 

OLD  LETTERS.  —  Reader,  have  you  a  package  of 
letters  from  friends  carefully  tied  with  ribbon,  or 
safely  laid  in  a  private  drawer.  They  are  like  a  row 
of  tombstones  in  "  God's  Acre,"  marking  the  place 
where  friends  have  been  laid.  They  are  dead  now. 
The  soul  passed  out  of  them  as  you  read  them  first, 
and  when  you  occasionally  look  over  them  now  it  is 
for  the  same  reason  that  you  look  at  the  picture  of  a 
dead  friend  —  to  call  up  more  vividly  the  memories 
of  the  past.  As  the  life  of  those  letters  passed  into 
our  own,  so  shall  our  lives  one  day  pass  into  a  greater 
one. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  57 


A  NIGHT  IN  A  LIGHTHOUSE. 

Years  ago  we  were  familiar  with  the  murmuring 
of  the  sea,  listened  entranced  to  its  wondrous  voices, 
but  it  had  been  long  since  its  music  had  been  our 
lullaby  and  we  had  slept  with  its  waters  all  around 
us.  The  sensation  was  almost  novel  and  entirely 
delightful ;  we  could  not  help  thinking  that  we  had 
some  connection  with  the  great  light  in  the  tower,  and 
the  safety  which  it  gave  to  the  sailors  who  passed  by. 

The  sea  has  strange,  multitudinous  voices  for  those 
who  have  ears  to  hear.  Sometimes  it  has  a  cry  of 
pain,  like  it  were  a  caged  monster  chafing  at  the 
bounds  which  confine  it,  and  reaching  out  angrily  to 
seize  its  prey;  and  again  its  tones  are  soft  and  se 
ductive  as  the  voices  of  the  fabled  sirens,  and  its 
retreating  waves  woo  to  their  embrace  with  no  inti 
mation  that  their  returning  grasp  is  relentless  as 
death.  Sometimes  the  waves  will  thunder  in  a 
grand,  joyful,  and  triumphant  chorus,  as  if  an  om 
nipotent  hand  measured  their  flow  into  harmony 
with  the  melodies  of  infinite  thought  and  the  move 
ments  of  limitless  worlds ;  and  again  in  fantastic  and 
playful  mood  they  will  dance  as  lightly  as  the  feet  of 
Mirth,  and  sing  as  gayly  as  the  lips  of  Love. 

We  seemed  again  to  hear  the  sea  in  all  these 
moods,  and  remembering  the  recent  great  storm, 
and  the  evidences  of  it  which  were  all  around  us, 
the  thought  of  its  terror  clung  close  to  us,  and  in 
our  fancy  the  wrecks  drifted  slowly  by, 


58  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

"  the  gurgling  cry 

Of  the  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony" 

fell  upon  our  ears,  and  the  drowned  men  came  gliding 
in  procession  before  us,  each  spectral  form  now  rising 
on  the  crested  wave  and  now  dipping  below  it. 

The  thoughts  became  too  heavy,  and  with  sym 
pathy  for  those  who  mourned  the  desolations  which 
shipwreck  had  made,  and  with  thankfulness  that  such 
sorrows  had  not  invaded  our  life,  we  dismissed  the 
specters  called  up  by  fancy,  and  closing  our  ears  to 
the  ceaseless  voice  of  many  waters,  we  slept  soundly 
in  the  lighthouse  at  Racine. 

RAILROAD  RIDING,  even  with  pleasant  compan 
ions,  is  tedious,  unless  one  thinks,  or  rather  reveries, 
if  that  word  can  be  used  as  a  verb.  It  is  so  natural 
for  one  to  think  that  the  train  he  is  riding  on  is  the 
important  train  of  that  day.  But  if  he  stops  to 
think,  he  knows  that  all  over  the  broad  land,  every 
hour  of  the  day  and  night,  the  great  trains  are  shoot 
ing  across  States,  as  the  shuttle  shoots  across  the 
loom,  each  filled  with  the  same  eager,  expectant 
throng.  Each  car-load  is  a  small  edition  of  the 
great,  surging,  restless  world.  Some  gaily  intent  on 
pleasure ;  some  on  errands  of  business  and  gain ; 
some  with  hearts  breaking  with  sorrow,  hastening  to 
comfort  the  dying,  or  bury  the  dead ;  some  on  mis 
sions  of  mercy ;  some  in  the  service  of  crime ;  some 
hearts  bright  with  climbing  hopes  which  reach  the 
heavens  ;  some  dark  with  despair  which  shudderingly 
recoils  from  hell. 


LUTE  TAYLORS  CHIP  BASKET.        59 


THE  NIGHT  TRAIN. 

There  is  something  weird  and  almost  ghostly 
about  the  shrieking  passage  of  the  night  train  over 
the  long,  level  miles.  Through  the  black  night  it 
goes,  waking  the  stillness  with  its  roar,  and  startling 
the  darkness  with  the  gleam  of  its  rushing  headlight, 
while  its  colored  lanterns  in  the  rear  twinkle  a  hasty 
good-bye.  It  comes  like  a  startling  apparition  —  it 
goes  like  a  dream  of  delirium,  leaving  one  in  wonder 
and  amaze. 

Within  the  train  the  sight  is  equally  suggestive. 
Here  are  the  employes  faithful  at  their  post,  and  the 
conductor  moves  about  with  ever  watchful  eye. 
Here  is  weariness,  languor,  and  unconsciousness  in 
every  form.  The  strong  man  has  forgotten  his 
strength,  and  uneasily  sits  or  lies  in  crumpled  con 
dition.  The  worn  mother  wearily  tends  her  restless 
child,  and  snatches  brief  bits  of  sleep  as  the  lazy 
hours  creep  slowly  by.  Here  all  is  impatient  waiting, 
discomfort  and  unrest ;  but  back  in  the  luxurious 
sleeping-car  the  unconscious  inmates  are  wrapped 
in  undisturbed  repose,  and  unheeded  by  them  the 
great  train  rushes  on  its  way. 

By  and  by  the  morning  comes.  Some  with  light 
hearts  awake  to  feel  its  brightening  touch  rest  like  a 
benediction  upon  them.  Others  awake  with  aching 
heads  and  weary  frames  to  face  again  the  deep  dis 
appointment  and  the  carking  cares  from  which  sleep 


60  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

had  brought  them  only  slight  respite,  and  so  all  go 
on  their  several  ways. 

In  the  great  journey  of  life  there  is  a  night  train 
also.  We  shall  all  take  it  sometime.  It  is  like  the 
other  of  which  we  have  written,  in  that  there  will  be 
careful  attendants  around.  The  conductor  on  this 
tram  is  the  physician,  who  gives  to  us  his  constant, 
watchful  care,  while  nurses  and  friends  watch  over 
us,  obeying  every  order  — as  the  brakesmen  watch 
and  control  the  movements  of  the  rapid  car.  Here, 
too,  are  some  tossing  in  the  delirium  of  fever,  writhing 
in  the  gripe  of  unrelaxing  pain  — while  others,  blest 
with  unconsciousness,  speed  swiftly  on  to  the  jour 
ney's  end. 

To  all  these,  also,  the  morning  cometh ;  and  they 
shall  wake,  like  those  others  of  whom  we  have  writ 
ten,  as  the  night  found  them  —  some  racked  with 
remorse  and  scarred  with  sin  —  others  bright  with 
the  splendors  of  unspeakable  joy.  When  that  night 
comes  to  us,  may  our  passage  be  peaceful,  our  morn 
ing  be  unclouded  day. 

THE  shining  crystal  snow  is  nothing  but  dark 
water  purified  by  frost ;  and  so  the  saintly  souls  we 
sometimes  meet  are  only  our  common  human  nature 
sanctified  by  sorrow  and  sweetened  by  faith. 

A  MAN  may  be  successful  as  a  loafer,  and  invest 
less  capital  and  brains  than  are  required  to  succeed 
in  any  other  profession. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  61 


"POOR   CARLOTTA!" 

On  the  1 9th  of  June,  in  the  city  of  Queretaro,  in 
the  fair  sunlight  of  a  beautiful  day,  guarded  by 
legions  of  soldiers,  and  surrounded  by  a  vast  popu 
lace,  a  young  and  gallant  gentleman  was  shot  to 
death.  He  was  of  princely  lineage,  and  his  unshrink 
ing  courage  and  noble  mien  well  became  his  royal 
birth  and  blood. 

Standing  there  in  the  awful  moment  which  was  to 
divide  two  worlds,  his  thoughts  were  not  of  hopes 
ruined,  of  honors  lost,  of  ambitions  crushed  or  con 
fidence  betrayed,  but  of  the  beautiful  and  devoted 
wife  whose  gracious  ways  and  womanly  gentleness 
and  resistless  beauty  had  been  the  crowning  glory 
of  his  happier  life,  the  sweetest  solace  of  his  mis 
fortune,  who  had  crossed  the  seas  in  his  behalf,  only 
to  be  repulsed  in  despair  —  he  thought  of  her,  and 
his  last  words  were  "POOR  CARLOTTA  !" 

For  this  will  Maximilian  be  remembered.  Not 
for  his  royal  blood,  but  for  that  touch  of  nature 
which  makes  the  whole  world  kin.  There  is  not  in 
history  any  dying  words  of  saint  or  hero  which 
appeal  more  tenderly  to  the  universal  heart  of  man 
than  these. 

We  do  not  mourn  over  Maximilian's  death,  for 
execution  for  state  offenses  does  not  necessarily 
imply  any  stain  upon  personal  honor.  His  faults 
were  those  of  birth  and  inheritance.  His  virtues, 
his  bravery,  his  tenderness*  were  of  that  rare  and 


62  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

noble  quality  which  forever  receive  the  worship  of 
woman  and  the  admiration  of  man. 

"POOR  CARLOTTA!"  However  misguided  in  his 
ambitions  or  his  acts,  those  words,  with  their  re 
deeming  associations,  will  crown  him  with  the  flowers 
of  affection  and  the  laurel  of  fame.  This  is  one  of 
the  tragic  facts  of  life,  which  eclipse  all  possible 
fiction.  The  romance  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  "  does 
not  equal  in  tearful  and  tender  interest  the  story  of 
Maximilian  and  Carlotta. 

"POOR  CARLOTTA  !"  The  words  are  historic  for- 
evermore.  Side  by  side  the  brave  young  prince  and 
his  beautiful  wife  will  walk  together,  grandly  but 
mournfully,  through  the  pages  of  future  history  — 
through  all  the  years  of  coming  time. 

MINNEHAHA  is  not  a  "big  thing,"  though  it  is  one 
of  the  most  curious  and  delightfully  charming  things 
on  record.  The  water  falls  because  it  can't  help  it. 
The  stream  being  small,  and  venturing  to  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  of  course  the  force  of  gravitation 
takes  it  down.  It  is  natural,  very.  It  flows  music 
ally  along,  like  any  other  modest  and  merry  stream, 
until,  without  warning  of  any  kind,  it  suddenly  finds 
itself  on  the  dizzy  brink,  and  in  an  even  sheet  about 
thirty-five  or  forty  feet  in  width,  it  goes  shivering 
and  sparkling  over,  and  shimmers  and  gurgles  and 
gleams,  and  tosses  out  its  white  arms,  and  flings  its 
silvery  spray,  and  wreaths  itself  into  fantastic  forms, 
until,  at  last,  having  fallen,  probably,  about  eighty 
feet,  it  gathers  itself  together  and  hurries  away. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  63 


THE  TYPE  AND  THE  TYPOS. 

The  two  most  fascinating  sounds,  not  human,  to 
which  I  have  ever  listened,  are  the  click  of  the  tele 
graph  and  the  click  of  the  types.  There  is  a  tie  of 
consanguinity  between  these  sounds  —  a  family  rela 
tionship  of  birth,  and  a  similarity  of  service  in  the 
things  themselves.  Each  serves  the  highest  master 
—  Mind;  each  is  engaged  in  the  noblest  occupation 
— the  diffusion  of  ideas  and  intelligence. 

As  the  music  of  the  violin  is  an  incentive  to  dancing, 
so  is  the  music  of  types  rapidly  falling  into  a  "  stick  " 
an  aid  to  thought.  Many  very  brilliant  newspaper 
articles  have  been  "set  up"  at  the  "case,"  without 
having  been  previously  written,  and  in  our  experience 
we  have  often  found  that  when  we  had  an  extra 
amount  of  writing  to  do,  we  could  do  it  more  easily 
and  more  rapidly  to  leave  the  carpeted  sanctum  and 
the  cushioned  chair,  and  sit  at  a  bare  table  in  the 
"composing  room,"  where  we  could  catch  the  infec 
tion  of  the  industry  around  us. 

Of  the  types  themselves  we  never  weary.  They 
are  the  civilizers  —  a  dictionary  reduced  to  its  lowest 
denomination.  They  look  dull  enough,  but  all  the 
glorious  possibilities  that  the  human  heart  can  hope 
for  are  in  their  possession  —  you  have  but  to  learn 
the  secret  they  so  closely  keep.  If  one  but  knew 
how  to  properly  pick  out  and  arrange  those  little 
pieces  of  metal,  princely  fortune  and  immortal  fame 
would  be  his  reward.  It  took  but  a  handful  to  make 


64  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

the  "Heathen  Chinee,"  yet  that  handful  made  the 
name  of  Bret  Harte  a  household  word,  and  placed 
ducats  at  his  disposal.  There  are  plenty  of  possi 
bilities  left  in  them  yet.  There  are  finer  strains 
there  than  poet  has  ever  sung;  there  is  keener  wit, 
more  tearful  pathos,  more  persuasive  prayer  than 
tongue  has  uttered,  or  ear  has  heard.  Get  it  out  if 
you  can.  They  are  patient  of  delay. 

It  is  interesting  to  trace  the  analogy  between  these 
types  and  the  mind  which  is  their  master.  A  locked 
"form  "gives  no  more  indication  to  the  unpracticed 
eye  of  the  satire  that  may  be  sparkling,  or  the  sorrow 
that  may  be  sobbing  through  it,  than  an  impassive 
face  gives  of  the  thought  which  may  be  moving  in 
the  brain.  And  again,  as  the  life  of  a  man  is  often 
quickened,  his  soul  strengthened,  and  his  energy  in 
creased  by  stress  of  adverse  circumstances,  so  it  is 
only  a  "  tight  squeeze  "  which  reveals  the  life  within 
the  types.  The  baptism  of  ink  must  descend  upon 
them,  and  the  strong  arms  of  the  press  must  embrace 
them  before  the  life  that  is  in  them  is  made  manifest. 

The  "  typos  "  are  as  interesting  as  the  types.  The 
printer  has  been  well  called  "the  adjutant  of  thought." 
He  is  more  than  a  mechanic,  although  much  of  his 
labor  is  mechanical.  The  faithful,  conscientious, 
pains-taking  printer  is  deserving  of  an  honor  that  he 
rarely  receives.  Quite  often  he  is  the  superior  in 
intelligence  of  the  writer  whose  "  copy  "  comes  into  his 
hands,  and  it  is  owing  to  his  judgment  and  care  that 
the  writer  makes  so  presentable  an  appearance  in 
print.  Standing  silently  at  his  case,  busy  with  hand 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  65 

and  brain,  the  "  copy  "  that  comes  to  him  is  a  minia 
ture  panorama  of  the  multitudinous  life  of  the  world. 
A  jest,  a  murder,  a  speech,  a  song,  a  funeral,  or  a 
dance,  each  is  chronicled  and  forgotten,  just  as  they 
are  briefly  commented  on  and  forgotten  by  the  busy 
world  outside. 

Among  "  typos  "  there  is  a  fellowship  closer  than 
among  any  other  artisans.  To  belong  to  the  "  craft " 
is  a  passport  to  the  sympathy  of  all.  The  needy 
printer  can  always  find  a  "  case  "  which  his  more 
favored  brother  typo  will  relinquish  to  him  for  a 
time,  or  he  will  receive  a  donation  by  asking  for  it. 
No  printer,  whether  deserving  or  not,  goes  empty- 
handed  from  the  office  where  his  needs  are  known. 
These  needy  printers  are  frequently  the  veriest "  dead 
beats  "  in  existence.  As  the  faithful,  careful  printer 
is  one  of  the  most  honorable  of  the  great  army 
which  swells  the  ranks  of  labor,  so  the  "  tramp  "  is 
one  of  the  most  useless  and  degraded  of  loafers.  In 
being  this,  he  but  obeys  a  general  law — that  law 
which  makes  a  vile  woman  viler  than  a  man  can  be, 
because  she  stoops  from  a  higher  elevation.  But  we 
have  not  time  to  pursue  the  subject.  To  all  the 
toilers  at  the  case  we  reach  out  a  friendly  hand,  and 
hope  that  when  their  life  "proofs  "  are  revised  by  the 
Master's  eye,  there  will  be  found  no  "  outs  "  of  virtue 
or  "doublets"  of  vice. 

THE  way  a  man  spends  Sunday  is  a  pretty  good 
indication  of  how  he  will  spend  the  remainder  of 
the  week. 

5 


66  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

THE  COUNTY  FAIR.  —  A  County  Fair,  like  death, 
or  politics,  is  a  great  leveler.  All  meet  on  equal 
terms  —  the  dapper  gent  and  the  hard-handed  son 
of  toil,  the  elegant  lady  and  her  humbler  country 
cousin,  the  fastidious  and  the  vulgar,  the  man  of 
bowels  and  the  man  of  brains,  the  white-haired  and 
aged  infirm  and  the  red-cheeked,  rollicking  boys,  all 
meet  on  a  level  and  wonder  at  the  pumpkins  and 
admire  the  pictures;  praise  the  address  of  the 
speaker  and  the  trappings  of  the  fancy  team;  are 
delighted  with  the  music  of  the  band,  and  eloquent 
over  the  enormous  proportions  of  a  yearling  calf; 
applaud  the  graceful  carriage  of  the  lady  equestrian, 
and  linger  admiringly  around  the  pen  of  a  beautiful 
Suffolk  shoat,  now  talk  interjections,  with  wondrous 
exclamation  points  between,  as  they  examine  a  deli 
cate  sample  of  embroidery,  and  then  almost  affec 
tionately  caress  a  huge  melon,  a  blood  beet,  or  a  jar 
of  plum  jam.  And  then  when  the  fair  is  over,  and 
the  roads  leading  countryward  are  filled  with  return 
ing  teams,  each  load  throws  out  talk  as  a  fountain 
jets  out  spray,  and  for  a  day  or  two  following  the 
whole  country  is  sown  thick  with  gossip  growing  out 
of  incidents  connected  with  THE  FAIR. 

A  TROUT  is  an  embodied  poem  —  the  expression 
of  God's  finest  thought  of  beauty  of  form,  grace  of 
motion  and  elegance  of  attire. 

PROGRESS  moves  forward  by  two  springs  —  men 
and  events. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  67 


WINTER. 

Winter  is  an  institution  —  especially  in  this  north 
ern  climate.  It  comes  late  in  the  fall,  and  stays  till 
the  weather  is  so  warm  it  can't  very  well  stay  any 
longer.  This  year  it  has  come  like  an  attack  of  the 
rheumatics,  or  a  caller  before  breakfast  —  mighty 
sudden  and  unexpected.  The  smile  of  the  Indian 
Summer  had  scarcely  faded  from  the  hillsides,  when 
the  surly  wintry  wind  came  blustering  over  them, 
and  made  the  bare  treetops  creak  with  pain,  and 
dashed  a  snow-shower  all  over  the  garments  of  re 
treating  autumn.  It  was  no  sportive  frolic  of  the 
elements,  but  a  genuine  blast  from  the  Winter  King 
—  "a  nipping  and  an  eager  air"  that  stung  the 
mouth  which  breathed  it ;  while  the  mercury,  which 
for  months  had  been  reposing  at  figures  of  comfort 
able  elevation,  suddenly  betook  itself  to  the  base 
ment  of  its  tubular  tenement,  and  ran  down  to  an 
alarmingly  low  figure  below  nothing. 

And  now,  my  friend  who  holds  this  paper,  (you 
are  not  in  much  of  a  hurry,  are  you  ?)  supposing  we 
have  a  little  talk  about  winter.  Cold  is  a  very  solemn 
thing.  It  is  cruel,  remorseless  —  there  is  death  in 
its  touch.  We  have  got  to  battle  for  life  till  summer 
suns  shine  on  us  again.  Did  you  ever  think  of  it — 
that  this  Jack  Frost,  who  paints  your  windows  with 
such  delicate  tracery,  who  clothes  the  whole  land 
scape  with  jewelry  which  gleams  and  flashes  in  the 
morning  sun  —  that  this  same  sparkling  fellow  is 


68  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

more  cruel  and  unrelenting,  more  pitiless  than  any 
ghoul  or  demon,  or  giant  Bluebeard  who  affrighted 
your  infancy  ?     Perhaps  you  are  a  mother,  holding 
your  little  babe  full  of  rich  and  vigorous  life.    Divest 
it  of  its  warm  garments  and  place  it  under  the  clear 
sky  of  this  beautiful  night,  and  Jack  Frost  will  sting 
it  with  icy  pains  till  the  soul  is  tortured  out  of  the 
body  and  the  warm  child  is  frozen  clay.     And  then, 
who  knows  but  the  wintry  forces  may  increase,  and  the 
air  become  so  full  of  frost  that  to  breathe  it  shall  be 
death,  and  furs  and  fires  shall  be  of  no  avail,  and  we 
all  be  frozen  stiff  and  stark,  standing  in  the  streets  — 
sitting  in  the  houses  —  motionless,  dead ;  who  knows  ? 
Winter,  too,  takes  away  many  of  our  pleasures. 
We  will  instance  but  one  —  the  pleasure  of  going  to 
bed  when  weary  and  rising  when  refreshed.    A  con 
templative  and  philosophical  mind  can  find  but  few 
pleasures  equal  to  that  of  going  to  bed  in  the  summer 
season.     What  a  kindness  in  the  touch  of  the  de 
licious  evening  air !     What  a  sense  of  roominess  in 
the  spacious  bed !     What  a  glorious  chance  for  the 
legs  to  push  round  and  get  acquainted  with  each 
other !  In  the  daytime  a  fellow's  legs,  cased  up  in  cloth 
and  boot-tops,  are  kept  in  perfect  isolation  and  know 
scarcely  anything  of  each  other ;  but  at  night  they  are 
introduced  to  each  other,  and  learn  that  they  are 
fellow-pilgrims,  traveling  through  life  together.  And 
in  the  morning  what  a  luxury  to  get  up  !     You  can 
dress  at  your  ease,  and  bathe  if  you  wish,  with  no 
disagreeable  chills  running  over  you,  but  a   sweet 
sense  of  secure  and  untroubled  comfort. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  69 

But  in  the  winter — ugh!  You  hang  around  the 
stove  long  after  you  ought  to  go  to  bed,  and  finally 
start  off  feeling  that  you  have  a  disagreeable  duty  to 
perform.  You  undress  with  frantic  energy — a  shud 
der —  a  desperate  plunge— ;a  spasm — a  series  of 
smaller  convulsions  —  and  you  go  to  sleep  just  to 
dodge  a  feeling  of  discomfort.  In  the  morning  it  is 
the  same  struggle  over  again.  The  thought  of  getting 
up  brings  a  contortion  to  your  face,  and  when  im 
pelled  to  it  by  necessity,  or  the  thought  of  coffee  for 
breakfast,  you  push  yourself  out  with  a  sullen  des 
peration,  draw  on  a  few  indispensable  articles,  and 
rush  for  the  nearest  stove  in  indecent  haste  and  in 
almost  immodest  attire. 

For  an  unseen,  impalpable  thing,  cold  is  about  as 
certain  a  reality  as  there  is  in  existence.  It  coffins 
up  the  lively  streams,  chills  the  bosom  of  the  blos 
soming  earth,  and  raises  the  price  of  cord  wood.  It 
puts  a  glow  of  health,  a  flush  of  beauty  and  rushing 
blood,  upon  the  cheek  of  the  delicate  maiden  wrap 
ped  in  furs;  and  a  look  that  is  almost  like  agony — 
a  wan,  thin,  pinched,  despairing  look  —  upon  the 
faces  of  the  shivering,  tattered,  and  comfortless  poor. 

No  art  can  elude  this  keen  searcher.  It  nestles 
in  the  corners  of  the  cheeriest  room,  as  twilight  lin 
gers  all  the  summer  day  in  the  thick  boughs  of  a 
dark  old  pine.  The  roaring  fire  drives  it  back  for  a 
time,  but,  let  the  glow  subside,  and  it  comes  back 
and  chills  to  death  the  very  embers.  It  pinches 
everybody's  ears  —  nestles  in  the  daintiest  slipper, 
and  crawls  into  the  stoutest  boot.  No  mortal  power 


70 

can  vanquish  it,  and  only  when  the  vast  forces  of 
Nature  give  it  battle,  and  the  summer  suns  pour  on 
the  world  their  flood  of  warmth,  does  it  relinquish 
its  grasp ;  and  then  it  is  not  conquered,  only  baffled, 
and  retreats  to  its  strongholds  in  the  icy  North,  leav 
ing  pickets  in  shady  and  sequestered  places,  and  soon 
sweeps  down  on  us  again,  impalpable  as  a  thought, 
and  dowered  with  a  strength  of  which  thought  can 
not  conceive. 

Yet  let  us  not  be  too  hard  upon  this  rough  old 
winter.  His  hoary  locks  and  glistening  beard  entitle 
him  to  a  thought  of  kindness  yet.  Nature  is  full  of 
wise  and  beneficent  compensations,  and  winter  gives 
us  much  for  what  is  taken  away.  The  long,  quiet, 
cozy  evenings,  when  the  fire  burns  brightly,  and  the 
shadows  dance  upon  the  wall,  and  the  fresh  papers 
are  on  the  table,  and  the  leaves  of  the  new  book  or 
magazine  are  waiting  to  be  cut,  and  the  sense  of 
discomfort  without  gives  added  blessing  to  the  sense 
of  security  within — what  hours  are  these  for  thought, 
for  reading,  for  happy  social  converse !  How  the 
heart  grows,  and  is  filled  with  a  kinder  love  and  a 
holier  humanity!  With  what  resistless  eloquence 
come  the  pleading  voices  of  the  suffering  poor,  the 
sorrow-stricken,  the  unfortunate ! 

THERE  is  a  thread  in  our  thought  as  there  is 
a  pulse  in  our  heart;  he  who  can  hold  the  one 
knows  how  to  think;  and  he  who  can  move  the 
other,  knows  how  to  feel. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  71 

DEATH  OF  WEDDED  LOVE. 

We  have  all  seen  the  trees  die  in  the  summer  time. 
But  the  tree,  with  its  whispering  leaves  and  swinging 
limbs,  its  greenness,  its  umbrage,  where  shadows  lie 
hidden  all  the  day,  does  not  die  all  at  once.    First  a 
dimness  creeps  over  its  brightness,  next  a  leaf  here 
and  there  sickens  and  pales,  then  a  whole  bough 
feels  the  palseying  touch  of  coming  death,  and  finally 
the  feeble  signs  of  sickly  life,  visible  here  and  there, 
all  disappear,  and  the  dead  trunk  holds  out  its  strip 
ped,  stark  limbs,  a  melancholy  ruin.      Just  so  does 
wedded  love  sometimes  die.     Wedded  love,  girdled 
by  the  blessing  of  friends,  hallowed  by  the  sanction 
of  God,   rosy  with  present  joys,  and  radiant  with 
future  hopes  —  it  dies  not  all  at  once.    A  hasty  word 
casts  a  shadow  upon  it,  and  the  shadow  darkens  with 
the   sharp  reply.     A  little   thoughtlessness  miscon 
strued,  a  little  unintentional  neglect  deemed  real,  a 
little  word  misinterpreted  —  through  such  small  ave 
nues  the  devil  of  discord  gains  admittance  to  the 
heart,  and  then  welcomes  in  all  his  infernal  progeny. 
The  presence  of  something  malicious  is  felt,  but 
not  acknowledged;  love  becomes  reticent,  confidence 
is  chilled,  and  noiselessly  but  surely  the  work  of  sepa 
ration  goes  on,  until  the  twain  are  left  as  isolated  as 
the  pyramids— nothing  left  of   the  union  but  its 
legal    form  — the    dead    trunk   of    the    tree   whose 
branches  once   tossed  in  the  bright  sunlight,   and 
whose  sheltering  leaves  trembled  with  the  music  of 
singing  birds. 


)2  LUTE   TAYLOR  S  CHIP  BASKET. 

A  GOOD  "TAVERN." — The tavern  itself  is  a 

'big  thing."  Whether  viewed  from  the  office,  bar, 
billiard-room,  parlors,  dining-hall  or  chambers,  it  is 
somewhat  stupendous.  The  ceilings  are  lofty  — 
likewise  the  bill  for  a  week's  board,  extras  included. 
As  a  candidate  for  the  nomination  for  circuit  judge 
of  this  district  once  said  of  the  City  Hotel  at  Hud 
son,  "  the  rooms  are  carpeted,  and  you  don't  have  to 
come  down  stairs  to  wash." 

A  daily  paper  is  published  by  the ,  called  the 

"Bill  of  Fare."  There  are  two  editions  —  morning 
and  noon.  It  is  furnished  to  guests  gratuitously, 
and  is  distributed  by  newsboys  —  who  are  girls 
mainly.  Many  choice  selections  are  made  from  this 
paper.  Much  more  might  be  said  in  praise  of  this 
tavern,  but  time  faileth  us.  It  is  an  excellent  place 
to  be  in. 

BOOKS.  —  A  good  book  is  the  most  appropriate 
gift  that  friendship  can  make.  It  never  changes,  it 
never  grows  unfashionable  or  old.  It  is  soured  by 
no  neglect,  is  jealous  of  no  rival,  but  always  its  clean, 
clear  pages  are  ready  to  amuse,  interest  or  instruct. 
The  voice  that  speaks  the  thought  ma'y  change  or 
grow  still  forever,  the  heart  that  prompted  the  kindly 
and  cheering  word  may  grow  cold  and  forgetful,  but 
the  page  that  mirrors  it  is  changeless,  faithful,  im 
mortal.  The  Book  that  records  the  incarnation  of 
Divine  Love  is  God's  best  gift  toman,  and  the  books 
which  are  filled  with  kindly  thought  and  generous 
sympathy  are  the  best  gifts  of  friend  to  friend. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Many  of  our  readers  are  the  same  to  whom  we 
have  sent  greeting  so  many  times  before.  Many 
of  those  early  readers  are  now  past  all  earthly  hear 
ing,  and  the  same  types  which  conveyed  them 
greeting  have  recorded  their  departure. 

Could  we  but  write  their  real  lives  to-day  —  the 
history  of  their  hearts — could  we  but  catch  and 
imprison  in  words  the  impalpable  life  of  the  soul  — 
the  happy  fancies  and  the  delicious  dreams  which 
tantalized  them  with  the  vague  hope  of  something 
better  than  they  had  known,  remote  but  longed 
for  possibilities  which  drift  through  the  dreaming 
thought  as  fleecy  cloudlets  drift  through  the  far-off 
summer  heaven;  or  could  we  picture  the  sorrow, 
the  regret,  the  disappointment,  the  unrest  that  em 
bitter  life,  or  the  black  remorse  that  darkens  it  like 
a  dream  of  hell ;  could  we  but  thus  picture  even 
the  commonest  life,  the  passion  of  romance  would 
pale  in  the  presence  of  the  more  passionate  reality. 
But  the  journalist  deals  only  with  outward  facts  and 
symbols,  and  real  life  remains  unwritten  and  gene 
rally  unknown. 

The  thought  that  some  of  those  around  us  who 
now  look  out  upon  this  glorious  earth,  and  drink  in 
its  life-giving  airs,  and  feed  upon  its  beauty,  will, 
on  another  New  Year,  lie  buried  in  its  bosom,  is  a 
natural  thought.  It  intrudes  itself  upon  us,  and  will 
not  be  put  away,  for  it  is  true.  The  richness  and 


74  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

fullness  of  life  as  surely  suggest  the  coming  stillness 
and  darkness,  as  the  shadows  are  sure  to  nestle 
among  the  leaves  in  the  rich  heart  of  the  summer 
day.  The  spectre  confronts  us  not  alone  in  the 
closet,  but  he  walks  beside  us  in  the  brightest  day, 
and  intrudes  upon  our  happiest  moments. 

GENIUS  AND  POVERTY.  —  It  is  one  of  the  myste 
ries  of  our  life  that  genius,  that  noblest  gift  of  God 
to  man  is  nourished  by  poverty.  Its  greatest  works 
have  been  achieved  by  the  sorrowing  ones  of  the 
world  in  tears  and  despair.  Not  in  the  brilliant 
saloon,  furnished  with  every  comfort  and  elegance; 
not  in  the  library,  well  fitted,  softly  carpeted,  and 
looking  out  upon  a  smooth  green  lawn,  or  a  broad 
expanse  of  scenery;  not  in  ease  and  competence,  is 
genius  born  and  nurtured  —  but  more  frequently  in 
adversity  and  destitution,  amidst  the  harassing  cares 
of  a  straitened  household,  in  bare  and  fireless  gar 
rets,  with  the  noise  of  squalid  children,  in  the  midst 
of  the  turbulence  of  domestic  contentions,  and  in 
the  deep  gloom  of  uncheered  despair,  is  genius 
born  and  reared.  This  is  its  birthplace,  and  in 
scenes  like  these,  unpropitious,  repulsive,  wretched, 
have  men  labored,  studied  and  trained  themselves, 
until  they  have  at  last  emanated  out  of  the  gloom 
of  that  obscurity  the  shining  lights  of  their  times  — 
become  the  companions  of  kings,  the  guides  and 
teachers  of  their  kind  —  and  exercised  an  influence 
upon  the  thought  of  the  world  amounting  to  a  spe 
cies  of  intellectual  legislation. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  7$ 


GETTING  WELL. 

Sickness  brings  a  share  of  blessing  with  it.  What 
stores  of  human  love  and  sympathy  it  reveals.  What 
constant  affectionate  care  is  ours.  What  kindly 
greetings  from  friends  and  associates.  This  very 
loosening  of  our  hold  on  life  calls  out  such  wealth 
of  human  sympathy,  that  life  seems  richer  than  be 
fore.  Then  it  teaches  us  humility.  Our  absence  is 
scarcely  noticed  or  felt.  From  the  noisy,  wrestling 
world  without,  we  are  separated  as  completely  as  if 
the  moss  were  on  our  tombstones,  yet  our  place  is 
filled,  and  all  moves  on  without  us;  so  we  learn 
that  when  at  last  we  shall  sink  forever  beneath  the 
waves  of  the  sea  of  life,  there  will  be  but  a  ripple, 
and  the  current  will  move  steadily  on.  On  a  sick 
bed  the  sober  truth  comes  home  with  startling 
emphasis,  that 


"The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom." 

But  we  started  to  write  about  getting  well.  There 
is  a  luxury  in  getting  well  that  cannot  be  told.  To 
feel  that  the  links  binding  you  to  life  are  surely 
strengthening ;  to  be  a  little  stronger  in  the  feet ;  to 
take  the  first  unassisted  step ;  to  be  an  hour  longer 
from  the  pillow ;  to  sit  once  more  with  the  family 
circle;  to  venture  into  the  open  air  and  feel  the 


76  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

better  for  it  —  yet  all  the  while  to  be  a  little  tremu 
lous  with  fear:  this  is  getting  well.  It  is  to  the 
frame  something  as  spring  is  to  reviving  nature  — 
when  we  are  not  quite  sure  it  has  done  snowing; 
not  sure  but  a  narrow  breadth  of  winter — a  "re 
lapse,"  you  know  —  lies  between  us  and  the  full 
blossoming  violet  and  snowdrop.  One  feels  a  new 
life  tingling  in  his  veins,  and  it  seems  as  if  this 
wondrous  machinery  of  his  was  just  set  in  motion. 
The  faces  of  acquaintances,  too,  wear  a  strange 
look,  and  only  by  degrees  do  they  grow  familiar. 

But  a  weakness  in  the  arm,  a  trembling  of  the 
hand,  and  a  dizziness  of  the  brain,  warn  us  to  close 
this  article,  lest  the  fatigue  of  writing  interfere  with 
our  own  —  getting  well. 

THE  TOILET  OF  DEATH.  —  The  love  of  dress  is 
instinctive.  With  the  child  it  is  a  passion,  with  the 
woman  a  pleasure,  with  the  man  a  manly  pride.  It 
is  necessary  and  right  to  give  due  attention  to  our 
apparel,  and  bestow  befitting  care  upon  our  personal 
appearance. 

But  the  time  will  come  when  we  shall  not  make 
our  own  choice  of  clothing  —  our  own  hands  will  not 
arrange  it,  nor  our  eyes  take  note  of  its  appearance. 
The  child  will  take  no  delight  in  the  beauty  which 
adorns  the  body;  the  woman  will  not  perceive  the 
texture,  color,  or  arrangement  of  her  garments,  and 
the  man's  closed  eyes  will  take  no  heed  of  his  comely 
apparel.  It  is  when  the  toilet  of  death  shall  be  made. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.      77 


ROBERT   BURNS. 

Probably  around  no  other  name,  not  divine,  has  ^ 
poesy  twined  so  many  wreaths;  over  no  other  has 
oratory  pronounced  so  many  and  so  graceful  eulo 
gies;  about  no  other  does  love  cling  with  such 
tenacious  hold,  as  about  and  around  the  name  of 
Robert  Burns.  Scotland  was  his  birthplace,  but  the 
heart  of  the  world  is  his  home. 

If  one  wants  to  know  how  royal  is  song  —  how 
every  gift  and  power  dwarfs  in  its  kingly  presence, 
let  him  ken   Robert  Burns.     He  has  lifted  a  pro 
vincial  dialect  into  universal  knowledge  and  inter 
pretation.     He  has  made  the  wild  Scottish  heather 
a   house-plant,  blooming   by    every   fireside    where 
literature  finds  welcome  or  love  itself  a  home.    Who 
knows  who  was  king  when  Robert  Burns  was  an 
exciseman  ?     Who  knows  who  were  the  lords,  and 
the  chancellors,  and  the  generals,  and  the  admirals, 
when  he  was  treading  in  the  furrow  of  his  plow  and 
watching  the  daisy  curl  beneath  it?     Who    knows 
of  their   birthdays?     Who  forgets   his?     What  he 
touched,  of  his  age,  will  be  immortal.    Tarn  O'Shan- 
ter's  hold  on  remembrance  is  as  secure  as  Caesar's 
or  Napoleon's.    "  Highland  Mary  "  will  be  enshrined 
forever  in  the  world's  heart  as  the  true  ideal  of  a 
maiden  —  gentle,  loving  and  pure, —  as  sweetly,  but 
less  sadly,  than  Ophelia,  she  will  glide  through  all 
the  centuries  to  come  —  a  vision  of  beauty,  grace 
and  love. 


78  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

Burns,  the  smart  plowman  from  Ayreshire,  the 
rhymster,  who  excited  after  a  while  the  mild  curi 
osity  of  the  literateurs  of  his  time,  dined  one  day,  by 
sort  of  special  favor,  at  Lord  Munboddo's,  with  Dr. 
Blair,  Dugald  Stewart,  Henry  McKenzie  and  the 
rest.  They  came  into  the  presence  of  the  wonder 
ful  rustic  thoughtlessly  enough,  and  now  they  cannot 
return  if  they  would.  They  are  defrauded  of  obliv 
ion,  and  must  forever  attend  him  as  satellites  the 
sun,  or  courtiers  the  king. 

His  very  follies  endear  him  to  us,  for  we  know  how 
sincerely,  sorrowfully  repentant  he  was.  He  does 
not  shine  upon  us  with  spotless  splendor,  in  awful 
isolation,  but  walks  our  daily  ways,  shares  our  com 
mon  thoughts,  enters  our  open  homes,  loves,  hopes, 
prays,  sins  and  suffers  like  us  all.  If  his  follies  were 
conspicuous,  his  nature  was  large.  Small  souls  need 
small  restraints.  A  man  may  carry  a  few  drops  of 
water  in  a  pint  cup  on  a  smooth  path  safely,  but 
to  bear  a  brimming  bucket  over  mountain  ways, 
through  storm  and  night,  and  never  spill  one  drop, 
is  what  no  man,  not  even  Burns,  could  do.  From 
his  life,  as  well  as  from  his  lines,  we  learn  the  great 
lesson  that 

"  We  partly  may  compute  wliat's  done, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

All  over  the  world  his  birthdays  -are  celebrated, 
and  his  name  kept  in  loving  remembrance,  but  no 
florid  eulogy  or  stately  verse  will  pay  him  a  finer 
tribute  or  more  truthfully  delineate  his  crowning 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  79 

excellency,  than  Alice  Gary  has  done  years  ago,  in 
words  simple  as  his  own  : 

"  A  lover  of  the  beautiful, 

In  Nature's  sweet  evangels  ; 
For  his  great  heart  was  worshipful 
For  men,  and  maids,  and  angels." 

THERE  are  trees,  like  the  butternut,  which  impov 
erish  the  ground  upon  which  they  grow,  but  the 
olive  tree  enriches  the  very  soil  upon  which  it  feeds. 
So  there  are  natures  as  unlike  in  effect  as  these  — 
some  cold,  selfish  and  absorbing,  which  chill  and 
impoverish  every  one  with  whom  they  come  in  con 
tact.  Others,  radiant,  affluent  souls,  who  enrich  life 
by  their  very  presence,  whose  smiles  are  full  of  bless 
ing,  and  whose  touch  has  balm  and  healing  in  it,  like 
the  touch  of  Him  of  Nazareth.  Squalid  poverty  is 
not  so  pitiable  and  barren  as  the  selfish  heart,  while 
wealth  has  no  largess  like  that  with  which  God  dowers 
the  broad  and  sunny  soul.  Be  like  the  olive  from 
whose  kindly  boughs  blessing  and  benison  descends. 

TO-DAY  there  is  no  scholastic  seclusion  so  pro 
found  that  the  allied  voice  and  action  of  this  mighty 
living  age  may  not  perpetually  penetrate  it.  To-day 
the  workshop  has  become  clairvoyant.  The  plow 
and  the  loom  are  in  magnetic  communication  with 
the  loftiest  social  centres.  The  last  results  of  the 
most  exquisite  culture  of  the  world  in  all  its  depart 
ments,  are  within  reach  of  the  lowest  haunt,  where 
latent  genius  and  refinement  await  their  summons. 


8o  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

INFLUENCE  is  to  man  what  flavor  is  to  fruit,  or 
fragrance  to  a  flower.  It  does  not  develop  strength 
or  determine  character,  but  it  is  the  measure  of  his 
interior  richness  and  worth,  and  as  the  blossom  can 
not  tell  what  becomes  of  the  odor  which  is  wafted 
away  from  it  by  every  wind,  so  no  man  knows  the 
limit  of  that  influence  which  constantly  and  imper 
ceptibly  escapes  from  his  daily  life,  and  goes  out  far 
beyond  his  conscious  knowledge  or  remotest  thought. 
There  are  noxious  weeds  and  fragrance-laden  flowers 
in  the  world  of  mind  as  in  that  of  matter.  Truly 
blessed  are  they  who  walk  the  way  of  life  as  the 
Saviour  of  mankind  once  walked  our  earth,  filling 
all  the  airs  about  them  with  the  aroma  which  is  so 
subtilly  distilled  from  kindly  deeds,  helpful  words 
and  unselfish  lives. 

ENJOYING  RELIGION. — We  are  tired  of  hearing 
people  tell  about  enjoying  religion,  or  mourning  be 
cause  they  do  not  enjoy  religion.  Religion  was  not 
intended  to  be  enjoyed.  Theoretically,  it  is  abstract 
truth,  like  Euclid's  propositions;  practically,  it  is 
merely  correct  living.  The  object  of  religion  is  not 
to  be  enjoyed,  but  to  enable  people  to  enjoy  life,  and 
arm  them  with  faith  to  meet  that  which  lies  beyond. 
It  is  a  means,  not  an  end ;  and  people  who  are  long 
ing  after  enjoyment  of  religion  are  very  apt  to  divorce 
it  from  its  proper  influence  in.  mellowing  the  asperities 
of  life,  and  prompting  to  kindness,  charity  and  love. 

NATURE  is  a  creditor  who  accepts  no  protest. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  Si 

VENTRILOQUISM. 

[A  local  notice  from  the  Prescott  "Journal"  in  1867.] 

Professor  Sands  gave  semi-scientific,  magical  and 
diabolical  entertainments  here  on  Tuesday  and 
Wednesday  evenings  last.  He  had  full  audiences, 
and  entertained  them  well.  Some  of  his  tricks  were 
performed  with  a  skill  we  never  saw  equaled.  But 
the  sharpest  and  best  trick  he  performed  was  in 
inducing  nineteen  or  twenty-three  fools,  one  of  whom 
was  us,  to  pay  one  dollar  each  to  learn  how  to  per 
form  ten  tricks  of  magic  and  ventriloquism.  We 
learned  them ;  oh,  yes.  They  were  easy,  and  when 
we  had  learned  how,  we  could  perform  them  so- 
easy —  just  as  easy  as  a  boy  who  has  taken  one 
lesson  on  a  violin  can  play  like  Ole  Bull,  or  a  girl, 
after  her  first  dancing  lesson,  move  like  Fanny 
Elsler. 

But  we  learned  ventriloquism  good.  It  some 
times  troubling  us  to  talk  where  we  are,  we  wanted 
to  know  how  to  talk  where  we  ain't.  We  can  do  it. 
We  can  "throw  our  voice  "  muchly.  We  have  tried 
it  thusly :  We  are  the  proprietor  of  a  bovine  cow. 
She  don't  seem  to  know  her  master's  crib  as  well  as 
the  Biblical  ass  did  his.  She  isn't  disposed  to  be 
regular  to  her  meals  and  milking.  This  eccentricity 
was  sometimes  annoying.  It  is  so  no  more.  We 
step  to  the  door  and  ventriloquise  her.  We  throw 
our  voice  a  mile  or  so  to  her  favorite  haunts  and 
6 


82  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

win  her  home.  We  would  not  take  ten  cents  for 
this  useful  and  wonderful  power  of  ventriloquism. 
We  will  impart  it  to  our  friends  for  a  reasonable 
remuneration.  We  like  Professor  Sands,  and  hope 
he  will  rent  a  house  and  come  here  to  live. 

THE  practice  of  asceticism  in  religious  matters  is, 
happily,  fast  passing  away.  The  dogma  —  so  com 
monly  accepted  even  a  few  years  ago  —  that  self- 
denial  is  a  thing  commendable  in  itself  and  for  its 
own  sake ;  that  the  mere  fact  that  an  emotion  or  a 
practice  is  pleasing,  affords  sufficient  proof  that  it  is 
sinful  and  should  be  repressed,  is  one  of  the  few 
remaining  shreds  of  the  now  tattered  robe  in  which 
superstition  once  clothed  the  radiant  form  of  religion 
itself.  We  cannot  inject  virtue  into  the  soul  by 
drawing  the  blood  from  the  veins.  It  is  from  the 
regulation  of  desire,  not  from  its  crucifixion,  that 
virtue  grows  strong ;  •  and  warm-blooded,  large- 
hearted,  strong-passioned  men  and  women,  who 
guide  aright  the  current  of  their  lives,  but  do  not 
check  its  strong  impetuous  flow,  are  fitter  creatures 
for  the  uses  of  life  and  the  service  of  God,  than  the 
pale,  passionless  human  plants  out  of  whom  a  too 
rigid  discipline  has  crushed  the  bloom  of  earth 
without  infusing  the  hues  of  heaven. 

THERE  are  men  so  penurious  that  if  an  angel 
should  visit  them  and  stay  to  dinner,  the  cost  of  the 
meal  would  detract  from  the  warmth  of  the  welcome. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  83 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE. 

Now,  Joe,  I  am  taking  it  easy  in  shirt  sleeves  and 
slippers,  with  a  cozy  fire  and  a  few  capital  cigars, 
and  this  letter  will  be  a  sort  of  random,  helter-skelter 
concern,  written  a  good  deal  as  a  pig  makes  a  forced 
journey — in  all  directions — and  so  I  direct  it  to  you 
individually,  that  its  semi-personal  character  may 
nick  off  the  wire-edge  of  any  unkindly  criticism. 

You  are  indebted  for  this  epistle,  dear  Joe,  to  a 
tremendous  snow-storm  which  has  been  howling 
around  here  until  it  is  liable  to  indictment  as  a  pub 
lic  nuisance.  And  I  may  as  well  remark  that  during 
my  stay  in  this  State  snow-storms  have  been  disgust 
ingly  common.  There  is  an  old  saying  that  snow  is 
the  poor  man's  fertilizer — at  least  that  is  what  it 
means,  though  the  word  used  in  the  proverb  is  sug 
gestive  of  a  ranker  odor  and  a  more  filthy  appear 
ance  than  we  ascribe  to  the  cleanly  snow.  Admitting 
the  proverb  to  be  true,  it  grieves  me  to  think  how 
much  of  this  fertilizer  has  been  wasted  here  this 
season.  Millions  of  bushels  have  drifted  away  into 
uncultured  places,  simply  because  the  farmers  were 
too  shiftless  to  build  fences  high  enough  to  contain  it. 

[NOTE.  —  Will  professed  agriculturists  please  call 
attention  to  this  fearful  waste  of  a  productive  agency?] 

Did  you  ever  think,  my  dear  Joe,  what  a  powerful 
thing  this  snow  is?  You  see  the  broad,  feathery 
flakes,  pure,  soft  and  yielding,  falling  silently  and 
slowly,  touching  the  earth  as  tenderly  and  lovingly 


84  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

as  a  mother  kisses  her  child,  and  it  seems  a  type  of 
harmless  purity.  But  by-and-by  the  snow-clouds 
thicken  and  darken,  the  cold  hardens  the  feathery 
flakes  into  biting  crystals,  and  the  wind  moans  and 
shrieks  and  roars  like  some  fabled  demon  in  an  agony 
of  torture,  while  hour  after  hour  the  snow-shower  falls 
in  a  blinding  tempest,  and  every  living  thing  seeks 
shelter  from  the  fury  of  its  rage.  And  when  the  storm 
is  over,  there  it  lies,  massed  into  vast  drifts  against 
which  horses  rear  and  plunge  in  vain,  and  the  hiss 
ing  locomotive,  with  its  fiery  strength,  reaches  into 
it  to  retreat,  baffled,  beaten — and,  not  to  put  too 
fine  a  point  upon  it,  these  huge  snow-drifts  keep 
cattle  away  from  drink,  boys  and  girls  away  from 
school,  and  men  and  women  away  from  the  neigh 
bors,  church,  store  and  post-office. 

[NOTE.  —  Right  here,  Joe,  I  may  as  well  note  the 
fact  that  the  most  harmless  appearing  things  have 
the  largest  share  of  latent  power  and  fury  in  them. 
The  fleecy  cloud  in  the  summer  heaven  looks  so  far 
off,  intangible  and  pure,  that  we  might  fancy  it  the 
mere  exhalation  of  a  passing  angel,  but  the  lightning, 
which  touches  but  to  wither,  lies  in  its  bosom.  It  is 
not  the  man  "bearded  like  a  pard,"  rough  and  blus 
tering,  whom  it  is  dangerous  to  offend,  but  the  quiet 
fellow  who  utters  no  threat,  gives  no  premonition  of 
anger,  except  the  changing  light  in  the  eye,  where 
fixed  resolve  is  burning.  .And  then  we  all  know, 
either  by  observation  or  testimony,  that  the  mildest- 
mannered,  purring,  pussy-cat  kind  of  women  are  the 
most  fearful  when  on  the  "rampage."] 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  85 

But,  to  come  back  to  the  railway  train:  what  a 
thing  of  mystery  and  beauty  and  power  is  the  engine 
itself — I  mean  one  of  those  ponderous,  royal  fel 
lows,  whose  driving  wheels  move  with  consciousness 
of  almost  limitless  power,  and  the  arm  which  connects 
them  plays  as  if  it  felt  omnipotence  was  in  its  stroke. 
It  is  more  marvelous  than  the  human  brain  in  one 
respect,  for  labor  does  not  wear  away  its  vital  force. 
The  play  of  those  steel  arms  is  tireless,  and  its  on 
ward  rush  never  falters  from  fatigue.  And  then, 
how  kind  and  tractable  a  monster  it  is !  At  the  will 
of  its  master,  it  will  repose  in  perfect  quiet  while  the 
gentle  lady  alights  from  the  car,  and  then,  at  a  touch 
or  too,  it  flames  and  shrieks,  and  rushes  over  dizzy 
heights  and  through  gaping  gorges  as  if  hell  was  in 
its  hearts  and  it  was  fleeing  from  mad  avengers.  Did 
you  ever  think, ^oe,  while  riding  in  a  rail-car,  that 
you  were  as  much  at  the  mercy  of  the  engineer  as  if 
he  held  a  loaded  rifle  to  your  breast?  Let  him 
but  touch  here  and  there,  and  your  trip  would  be  a 
"  through "  one,  for  you  would  fly  past  the  station 
where  death  stands  ever,  passing  from  one  world  to 
another.  I  sometimes  compare  an  engine  to  the 
human  brain.  The  working  of  a  large  brain,  guided 
by  wisdom  and  principle,  is  beneficent,  -like  the 
power  of  a  locomotive,  when  rightly  controlled ;  but 
an  essentially  bad  man  with  brain  power  is  as  dan 
gerous  as  an  engine  fired  and  running  with  no  direct 
ing  hand. 

By  the  way,  Joe,  I  think  it  is  not  long  since  you 
were  back  from  the  State  of  your  adoption  to  the 


86  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

State  of  your  nativity,  as  I  now  am.  How  much 
seems  strange,  Joe,  dwindled,  as  if  we  were  viewing 
things  through  the  small  end  of  a  telescope.  The 
old  stone  schoolhouse,  where  I  learned  to  "  speak," 
and  "  compose,"  seems  to  have  "  run  into  the  ground  " 
several  feet.  The  church,  with  which  is  connected 
my  earliest  remembrance  of  sermons  and  sabbath- 
schools,  and  which  seemed  so  vast  an  edifice  to  my 
wondering  youth,  is  now  a  very  modest-sized  and 
rather  mean-looking  building,  while  the  steeple,  which 
rose  to  so  dizzy  a  height,  is  not  now  so  lofty  by  far,  and 
it  is  leaning  sadly  askew,  as  if  the  devil  were  tugging 
to  pull  it  down,  that  it  might  no  longer  point  the 
way  to  heaven.  And  then  those  distances  across 
the  flats,  from  house  to  house,  or  hill  to  hill  —  is  it 
the  longer  reaches  we  have  traveled  over  since 
which  makes  seem  so  short  now  what  was  such  a 
weary  length  in  the  years  agone  ?  And  when  we 
meet  local  great  men,  whose  riches  or  beetling  brows 
awed  our  boyhood,  how  we  find  our  wonder  and  tim 
idity  gone.  How  old  it  makes  one  feel  to  ferret  out 
his  quondam  schoolmates,  and  find  them  filling  re 
sponsible  stations,  grappling  with  life's  earnest  work, 
and  see  lovely  women  who  have  gone  into  life-com 
panionship  with  them,  and  find  the  little  diamond 
types  of  humanity  — 

"  Feeble  promises  of  future  men" — 

lying  around  loose  most  anywhere.  But  there  is 
another  thing,  dear  Joe,  which  makes  your  corre 
spondent  feel  older  than  all  this  —  it  is  to  meet  some 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  87 

one  whom  you  remember  as  a  pretty  little  girl  in 
pantalets  and  short  dresses,  to  whom  you  used  to 
give  candy  and  primers  when  you  were  a  young 
man,  and  be  introduced  to  her,  and  be  received  with 
an  easy  lady-like  grace,  and  find  yourself  in  the  pres 
ence  of  beauty  and  culture,  quoting  Tennyson,  and 
talking  about  "Great  Expectations,"  and  you  invite 
her  to  a  ride,  a  concert  or  a  party.  Ah !  Joe,  this 
makes  one  feel  very  old  indeed  —  he  looks  for  gray 
hairs,  and  wonders  if  he  is  not  becoming  venerable. 
But,  Joe,  let  us  change  the  subject  before  it  gets 
too  solemn. 

This  being  the  4th  of  March,  I  am  reminded  that 
for  just -one  year  Mr.  Lincoln  has  been  President  of 
the  Un-tied  States.  Let  us  hope  that  before  the  next 
anniversary  of  his  inauguration,  we  may  transfer  the 
letters  to  their  original  place,  and  call  him  President 
of  the  United  States. 

You  may  have  heard  of  an  affair  down  in  Ten 
nessee,  where  a  movement  was  set  on  Foote  which 
resulted  in  giving  an  extensive  land  Grant  to  the 
rebels  in  the  vicinity  of  Fort  Donelson.  There  was 
Western  blood  and  brain  and  muscle  there,  Joe.  You 
have  read,  perhaps,  of  the  rejoicings  with  which  the 
news  was  received  —  the  shouting,  the  display  of 
banners,  and  the  thunder  of  the  guns.  Somehow, 
Joe,  I  could  not  halloo  much.  I  kept  thinking  of 
the  thousands  of  poor  fellows  who  were  lying  stark 
and  stiff — severed  by  canon  ball,  riddled  by  rifle 
shot,  torn  by  bursting  sjiell,  and  trampled  under  foot 
in  the  deadly  charge.  Lying  there,  grimmed  with 


powder  and  besmeared  with  blood,  their  ears  are 
forever  deaf  to  the  exulting  shout  of  victory.  Of 
course  the  cause  is  worth  the  sacrifice,  but  I  can  re 
joice  better  by-and-by,  when  the  wounded  have 
recovered,  and  time  has  partially  soothed  the  sorrow 
for  the  dead.  You  have  read,  Joe,  of  that  company 
which  went  into  battle  nearly  a  hundred  strong,  out 
of  which  but  seven  came  back  unscathed.  No  doubt 
they  were  mainly  good  fellows  —  generous,  hopeful, 
strong — loving  life  as  you  and  I  do,  and  they  had 
mothers,  wives,  sisters,  and  many,  perhaps, 

"  A  neai'er  one 
Still,  and  a  dearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other.  " 

And  they  shall  welcome  their  coming  no  more  !  How 
will  the  days  seem  darkened  to  them,  and  life  be 
burdened  with  the  weight  of  an  almost  crushing  sor 
row  !  It  is  easy  for  us,  safe  at  home,  to  talk  of  duty 
and  honor  and  glory  and  liberty  and  law  and  the 
flag,  and  its  being  "sweet  to  die  for  one's  country;" 
but  still  the  shock  of  battle  may  well  blanch  the 
cheek  and  sadden  the  heart  of  the  thinking  and 
compassionate.  The  hearts  which  bleed  are  not 
those  alone  which  are  pierced  by  remorseless  bay 
onet  or  murderous  ball.  They  are  scattered  in 
humble  homes  all  over  a  continent,  and  the  wound 
is  no  less  painful  because  unseen. 

No  MAN  ever  professed  to  contemn  women  until 
he  was  conscious  of  their  contempt. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 


RELIGIOUS  PROFESSORS. 

There  have  been  several  instances,  recently,  in 
which  clergymen  deflected  from  the  strict  line  of 
manly  and  ministerial  propriety,  and  each  instance 
has  been  seized  upon  by  the  rapacious  reporters  of 
sensation  sheets,  and  magnified  into  an  importance 
totally  disproportionate  to  the  offense.  We  do  not 
so  much  care  for  this  as  for  the  covert  sneers  at 
religion  itself  which  are  introduced  into  these  arti 
cles —  the  inference  drawn  that  because  of  these 
transgressions  the  Christian  religion  is  impotent  and 
powerless  to  restrain  the  passions  and  purify  the  life. 

This  habit  of  judging  a  cause  by  the  exceptional 
case  of  one  of  its  professed  followers  is  not  confined 
to  reporters  alone,  but  it  is  unjust,  illogical  and  ab 
surd.  It  is  also  true  that  people  generally  expect 
too  great  results  to  follow  from  a  public  profession 
of  a  Christian  faith  and  practice.  They  demand  of 
every  "  member  of  the  church  "  a  uniform  piety  and 
an  equally  blameless  life.  Now,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  this  expectation  cannot  be  realized.  Religion 
is  simply  a  certain  power  —  a  moral  force  —  and  its 
effect  upon  any  person  is  limited,  and  determined  to 
a  great  extent  by  the  character  of  the  person  upon 
whom  it  acts.  To  the  man  or  woman  of  genial  and 
sunny  spirit,  of  frank  and  generous  and  noble  nature, 
religion  adds  a  grace  almost  divine  in  its  unmatched 
beauty;  but  upon  the  man  or  woman  with  a  natu 
rally  sour  and  cynical  disposition,  with  coarse,  un- 


90  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

comfortable  manners  and  perverted  instincts,  the 
same  power  of  religion  acts  only  as  a  restraint— 
mitigating  what  else  were  altogether  unlovely  into  a 
condition  of  comparative  tolerableness.  If  you  apply 
an  equal  amount  of  sugar  to  a  dish  of  strawberries 
and  a  plate  of  salad,  the  taste  of  the  two  will  not  be 
similar,  and  so  the  same  influence  of  the  Christian  re 
ligion  applied  to  totally  dissimilar  characters  cannot 
produce  similar  results.  If  one  is  not  a  professing 
Christian,  let  him  at  least  be  reasonable  in  his  criti 
cisms  of  those  who  are. 

OUR  lives  are  complex.  Cooperation  is  the  neces 
sity  of  our  being.  It  is  the  first  lesson  taught  us  — 
for  no  person  was  ever  born  without  the  presence 
and  cooperation  of  another  person  of  maturer 
years  —  and  in  the  important  and  intensely  personal 
matter  of  marriage,  the  cooperation  and  consent  of 
another  person  of  the  opposite  sex  is  absolutely 
essential.  The  thread  of  life,  even  with  the  most 
self-reliant,  is  not  a  single,  separate  strand,  but  it  is 
twined  and  interwoven  with  many  others.  Number 
less  and  unknown  hands  are  laboring  to  supply  our 
wants  or  minister  to  our  pleasures.  The  Celestials 
pick  the  tea  whose  fragrance  we  sip,  and  laughing 
girls  beyond  the  sea  gather  the  grapes  whose  rich 
blood  shall  sparkle  in  the  light  of  our  homes.  Not 
till  we  reach  the  close  of  life  shall  we  be  beyond  the 
need,  as  beyond  the  reach,  of  human  sympathy  and 
aid.  In  that  supreme,  momentous  moment,  we  are 
—  for  the  first  time  in  our  existence —  ALONE. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  91 


DEC.  2,  1859. 

[The  following  lines  were  written  the  day  John  Brown  was  hung, 
Dec.  2,  1859.] 

There's  a  sadness  stealing  o'er  us,  there's  a  hush  in  all  the 

air  ; 
There  are  eyes  grown    red  with  weeping,  there  are   strong 

hearts  bowed  in  prayer ; 
And  the  patriot's  cheek  is  burning  with  the  crimson  blush 

of  shame, 
While  the  whole  broad  land  is  thrilling  to  the  mention  of 

ONE    NAME. 


Old  John  Brown  swings  from  the  gallows  —  so  Christ  hung 

upon  the  tree  — 
Freedom's  noblest  son  is  strangled  in  the  proud  "land  of  the 

free." 
But  the  cross  is  shrined  in  holy  hearts  and  worshiped  by  the 

good  ; 
So  the  gibbet  shall  be  glorious  with  sacrificial  blood. 

O  brothers!   are  we  dying?     Have  our  souls  put  out  their 

fires? 
Have  we  hearts  of  men  within  us  ?    Have  we  Freedom's  large 

desires  ? 

Shall  we  sneak  into  our  closets,  and  mumble  out  our  prayers, 
While  a  hero's  dying  gasp  is  burdening  all  the  airs? 

Dare  we  stand  in  glorious  sunlight,  and  look  up  to  God's  pure 

heaven, 
And  no  stern,  indignant  protest  from  our  deepest  souls  be 

given  ? 


92  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

Let  us  wake  from  idle  dreaming  —  wake  from  all  unworthy 

care! 
Fill  our  hearts  with  manly  purpose  —  match  our  action  to  our 

prayer ! 

Let  us  think  of  John  Brown's  swinging  from  the  gallows  into 

heaven  ; 

Till  a  portion  of  his  manhood  to  our  puny  souls  be  given  — 
Till  the  holy  fires  of  liberty  our  frigid  hearts  shall  swell  — 
Till  we  hate  this  damned  oppression  with  the  bitter  hate  of 

hell. 

But  a  glorious  morn  shall  break  upon  the  night  of  our  de 
spair  ; 

Justice  will  not  sleep  forever,  nor  Gcd  be  deaf  to  prayer  ; 
Angels  rolled  away  the  stone  where  Christ  glorified  did  lay, 
And  the  sepulchre  of  slavery  shall  be  luminous  with  day. 

And  when  dawns  that  glorious  future,  and  we've  wiped  away 

our  shame, 

John  Brown,  despite  his  errors,  shall  wear  an  honored -name  ; 
And  eloquence  shall  warm  its  speech,  and  poesies  shall  play 
Round  the  soldier-guarded  gibbet,  where  the  old  man  dies 

to-day. 


AN  IDEAL  POEM. 

A  poem  should  be  round  and  perfect  as  a  star, 

And  full  of  beauty,  with  truth  beaming ; 
No  vicious  thought  or  ugly  phrase  should  mar  — 

But,  like  spring  flowers  in  meadows  gleaming, 
It  should  shine  out  in  brightness  and  in  splendor, 

And  be  as  holy,  pure  and  fair, 
As  full  of  light  and  love,  and  tender 

As  a  fair  girl's  eyes,  or  a  saint's  sweet  prayer. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  93 

CHICAGO. 

[Extracts  from  a  letter  to  the  St.  Paul  "  Pioneer."] 

I  like  Chicago.  Chicago  is  a  large  city.  I  have 
noticed  there  are  always  many  people  in  a  large  city. 
A  city  don't  do  well  without  them.  Some  of  your 
readers  may  not  have  been  to  Chicago.  Shall  I  tell 
them  about  it  ? 

There  are  many  groceries  here,  where  they  sell 
tea,  codfish,  whisky,  flour,  molasses,  saleratus  and 
such  things,  and  other  groceries  where  they  sell 
cloth,  women's  clothes,  and  fancy  feminine  "  fixins  " 
generally.  Field,  Leiter  &  Co.  have  of  the  latter. 
It  is  in  cube  form  —  a  block  long,  a  block  high,  and 
a  block  thick.  It  is  bigger  than  a  barn,  and  tall  as 
a  light-house.  There  are  more  than  forty  clerks  in 
it  —  some  of  the  male  persuasion,  and  some  of  the 
female  sex  —  and  every  one  of  them  is  as  slick  as  a 
spit-curl  on  the  side  of  a  school-marm's  face. 

There  are  shows  here  —  theatres,  where  girls,  with 
out  very  much  clothes  on,  will  whirl  around  till  a 
fellow  is  dizzy  looking  at  them ;  and  then  stand  on 
one  leg,  like  a  hen.  Then  all  the  fellows  clap  their 
hands,  and  the  girl,  she  does  the  same  thing  again. 
It  is  fun ;  but  I  don't  think  I  would  like  to  marry 
one  of  them  girls  that  jumps  about  as  handy  as  a 
flea,  would  you,  Mr.  Editor?  I  don't  think  they 
would  be  real  careful  mothers-in-law,  do  you  ?  Miss 
Olive  Logan  insinuates,  you  know,  that — well  —  that 


94  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

they,  that  is,  some  of  them,  might  be  mothers  out  of 
law,  but  this  may  be  because  she  couldn't  get  used 
to  standing  on  one  toe  as  long  as  they  do.  Jealousy 
prompts  cruel  words  sometimes.  Then  there  is  a 
good  show  —  Wood's  museum  —  where  there  are 
birds,  monkeys,  wax-works  and  the  moral  drama. 
There  is  to  be  seen  the  dead  skeleton  of  a  big  snake 
that  aint  alive  now.  The  snake  is  a  whopper,  or 
was  when  he  was  on  earth.  It  takes  two  to  look 
him  all  over,  one  to  begin  at  each  end  and  look  till 
they  meet.  He  is  as  long  as  a  board  fence.  A  crow 
bar  would  be  just  a  fair  sized  tooth-pick  for  him, 
and  he  could  put  you  in  his  ear  and  not  feel  it.  I 
am  glad  he  is  dead. 

There  are  lots  of  ships  here,  and  horse-cars,  but 
the  horses  don't  ride  on  them,  though,  and  the 
water-works.  I  must  tell  you  about  the  water-works. 
They  are  a  big  thing.  Much  water  is  used  in  Chi 
cago.  Fastidious  people  sometimes  wash  in  it. 
Chicago  has  first-class  water  now,  and  plenty  of  it. 
She  has  built  a  tunnel  two  miles  long,  and  tapped 
Lake  Michigan  that  distance  from  the  shore.  The 
water  runs  down  to  the  home  station,  and  is  then 
lifted  up  high  by  steam-engines  and  distributed  over 
the  city.  The  hoisting  of  it  up  is  a  good  deal  like 
work.  There  are  three  steam-engines,  of  400,000 
horse-power  each,  used  in  pumping  up  the  water, 
and  they  are  now  preparing  to  put  in  a  new  large 
one.  I  like  to  see  those  engines  work.  Anybody 
would.  Clean,  polished,  shining  monsters,  they  seem 
to  take  a  conscious  pride  in  their  performance,  and 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  95 

the  tireless  movement  of  their  mighty  arms  seems 
almost  as  resistless  as  the  will  of  God.  But  they  cost 
scrips,  these  piles  of  polished  machinery  and  throb 
bing  life  do ;  and  with  that  regard  for  economy  which 
has  always  characterized  me,  I  think  I  have  discov 
ered  a  plan  by  which  this  work  can  be  done  at  a 
nearly  nominal  expense,  I  only  wonder  that  Chicago, 
with  her  accredited  "git"  and  "gumption,"  has  not 
adopted  my  plan  before.  I  will  explain  privately  to 
you.  My  plan  is  this  :  At  the  shore  end  of  the 
tunnel  build  a  large  tank  or  reservoir,  put  two  first- 
class  whales  in  it,  and  let  them  spout  the  water  up. 
Simple,  isn't  it  ?  and  feasible,  too,  and  cheap.  You 
see  the  whales  would  furnish  their  own  clothes  and 
lodging,  and  all  the  oil  they  would  need  for  lights 
to  work  nights  by,  and  the  city  would  really  be  out 
nothing  but  their  board.  Whales  have  always  been 
in  the  water  elevating  business,  so  this  would  be 
right  in  their  line.  They  would  work  and  think  it 
was  fun  —  just  as  a  boy  sometimes,  but  not  most 
always,  does  —  and  there  is  no  good  reason  why 
their  sportive  instinct  should  not  be  turned  to  prac 
tical  use.  Their  willingness  to  do  a  fellow  a  good 
turn  is  proven  by  the  fact  that  several  years  ago  one 
of  them  gave  a  preacher  man  named  Jonah  cabin 
passage  for  a  three  days'  trip,  and  never  even  asked 
to  punch  his  ticket  at  meal  time,  and  didn't  charge 
him  half  fare,  but  treated  him  like  a  first-class  dead 
head,  and  wouldn't  take  a  cent. 

I  am  confident  of  the  final  success  of  my  plan, 


96  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

but  the  prejudice  of  people  against  innovations  may 
retard  its  operation  for  some  time  yet. 

Speaking  of  water  makes  me  think  that  Chicago, 
like  St.  Paul,  has  a  river,  only  not  so  much  so. 
Rivers  most  always  run  by  large  cities ;  they  seem  to 
like  to,  some  way.  But  this  is  a  brigandish  sort  of 
river,  black,  foul  and  murky,  and  in  the  dark  night 
it  steals  sullenly  through  the  city,  like  a  prowling 
fiend.  Sometimes  drunken  men  stumble  into  it,  and 
awake  from  their  stupor  in  another  world;  and 
sometimes  fair  and  beautiful  girls,  whose  lives  have 
been  clouded  with  sin,  and  upon  whom  the  intoler 
able  burden  of  remorse  and  despair  presses  with  a 
crushing  weight,  seeks  its  dark  depths  as  a  refuge  — 
bury  their  griefs  and  shame  —  let  us  hope  their  sin 
also  —  in  its  bosom,  and  so,  shudderingly,  pass  from 
the  scorn  and  cruelty  of  life  into  the  presence  of 
infinite  pity  and  boundless  love. 

There  is  a  Board  of  Trade  here,  made  up  of  mer 
chant  men  and  bliffers.  Sometimes  they  sell  what 
they  haven't  got,  and  don't  have  money  enough  to 
get  it,  and  then  their  occupation  is  gone  almost 
immediately.  And  there  are  meeting-houses  —  lots 
of  them.  Country  people  call  them  churches,  but 
preaching  rinks  is  the  fashionable  name.  Some  of 
these  rinks  are  big  and  splendid,  and  people  that  go 
in  them  worship  in  a  highly  elegant  manner.  The 
music  is  better  than  in  Brignoli's  recent  operas  here, 
and  the  preacher  men  pitch  into  each  other  some 
times,  and  their  "mills"  are  reported  by  the  enter 
prising  local  papers  here. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  97 

There  are  taverns  here,  no  end  of  them  hardly, 
and  some  of  the  quiet  looking  fellows  that  keep  the 
books  can  beat  Sheridan  on  a  charge. 

But  I  can't  finish  this  letter.  It  is  too  hot.  The 
mercury  is  clear  up  in  the  attic  of  its  tubular  tene 
ment.  I  have  "  peeled  "  successive  garments,  till  I 
should  blush  to  meet  a  marble  goddess,  and  so, 
sweating,  but  serene,  I  remain,  yours  truly. 


THANKSGIVING—  1862. 

Great  Father  of  all  tribes  of  men! 

Thou  Sovereign  over  all 
To  thee  our  willing  knees  we  bend, 

Before  thee  gladly  fall. 

We  give  thee  thanks,  O  Sovereign  King, 

For  blessings  from  thy  hand ; 
O  may  thy  presence  light  our  way, 

Thy  smile  illume  our  land. 

Though  war's  mailed  hand  is  red  with  blood, 
And  earth  groans  with  the  slain, 

From  seeming  ill  shall  spring  the  good, 
Nor  life  be  lost  in  vain. 

For  where  our  starry  banner  waves 

Our  armies  fight  for  thee  ; 
And  though  the  path  lead  over  graves, 

The  goal  is  LIBERTY. 


98  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

THERE  is  no  grace  more  becoming  a  man,  no 
attribute  more  essential  to  the  perfect  development 
of  his  manhood,  than  humanity.  Religion  may  add 
dignity  to  the  lustre  of  this  endowment,  and  reck 
less  living  may  do  much  to  mar  its  beauty ;  but  this 
jewel,  whether  set  in  the  fitting  accompaniment  of 
blameless  living,  or  gleaming  out  from  a  disordered 
life,  like  virgin  gold  amid  worthless  dirt,  still  has  an 
intrinsic  worth  which  adorns  and  enriches  its  pos 
sessor. 

By  humanity  we  do  not  mean  alone  that  natural 
impulse  of  the  heart  which  prompts  us  to  relieve 
physical  want  or  suffering  when  presented  to  us,  but 
also  that  more  delicate  sensibility  which  appreciates 
mental  as  well  as  physical  conditions  —  that  thought 
ful  and  far-out-looking  sympathy,  which  recognizes 
the  suffering  we  do  not  see ;  that  condition  of  mind 
in  which  its  possessor,  himself  sitting  securely  in  com 
fort  and  ease,  still  hears  in  undertones  the  weary 
cry  of  the  world's  suffering  ones,  and  strives,  not 
alone  to  relieve  isolated  cases  of  suffering,  but  to 
lift  up  classes  and  peoples  into  more  hopeful  and 
happy  life.  This  is  the  true  glory  of  man.  Human 
ity  like  this,  careful  of  small  things,  yet  reaching 
towards  large  results,  takes  on  the  nobility  of  that 
charity  which  religion  places  first  among  the  virtues, 
and  the  man  who  cherishes  it  in  his  heart  has  a 
royalty  within  him  which  he  can  no  more  hide  than 
a  prince  can  disguise  his  native  bearing  beneath  the 
vestures  of  a  clown. 


LUTE    TAYLOR  S  CHIP    BASKET.  99 


SOCIAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Mr.  Taylor  had  a  very  extensive  social  corre 
spondence,  embracing  not  only  a  large  number  of 
relatives,  but  a  wide  circle  of  other  friends,  most  of 
whom  were  persons  of  literary  tastes  and  habits, 
and  among  the  number  several  who  have  won  high 
distinction  in  the  literary  world.  This  volume  fur 
nishes  space  for  only  a  few  selections  from  Mr.  Tay 
lor's  social  correspondence,  but  these  cover  a  long 
series  of  years,  running  from  the  school  days  of  his 
early  boyhood,  nearly  up  to  the  time  of  his  death. 

The  following  are  letters  to  a  cousin.  The  first 
was  written  when  he  was  but  seventeen  years  of  age, 
while  he  was  at  work  in  the  stone  quarries  at  Ma- 
lone,  N.  Y.  It  bears  date  May  23,  1852  : 

DEAR  COUSIN: 

No  wonder  Ik  Marvel  said,  "  blessed  be  letters."  He  didn't 
mean  a  short  business  scrawl,  nor  a  freezingly  polite  and  ele 
gant  one,  prim  as  a  young  miss's  new  bonnet,  without  any 
sentiment  or  soul  in  it ;  no,  he  meant  a  free,  dashing,  easy, 
chatty  letter,  full  of  trust,  truthfulness  and  affection,  one  that 
was  coined  in  the  heart  and  not  in  the  head ;  in  short,  just 
such  an  one  as  I  received  from  you  two  weeks  ago. 

Now,  Mellie,  are  not  such  letters  worth  having?  How 
much  wider  the  world  soems,  how  much  better  life  seems, 
how  the  soul  enlarges,  and  the  affections  deepen  while  read 
ing  letters  that  come  fresh  from  the  heart.  *  *  *  I  am 
glad  you  were  so  well  pleased  with  the  poems  I  sent  you. 
Thanks  for  the  urgent  invitation  to  make  you  a  visit.  I  tell 
you,  Mellie,  I  had  planned  a  visit  to  you  when  I  returned 


ioo  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

home,  and  thought  much  of  the  pleasure  it  would  be,  of  the 
warm,  hearty  grasp  of  your  hand,  and,  perhaps,  give  you  a 
—  a — k — (excuse  me,  Mellie,  no  use  in  dodging)  a  kiss,  and 
receive  a  much  better  one,  besides  seeing  the  other  whole 
house  full  of  cousins.  But  the  return  of  our  folks  from  the 
west  changes  all  my  plans,  and  now  I  cannot  tell  when  I 
shall  see  you. 

*  You  say  you  have  read  "  Dream  Life."  Wasn't  it  a  treat, 
though  ?  I  believe  that  "  Dream  Life  "  will  do  more  good  in 
the  world  than  all  the  sermons  of  many  Christian  preachers 
who  have  grown  gray  in  their  sacred  office. 

Now,  Mellie,  write  soon ;  I  cannot  afford  to  wear  out  my 
boots  running  to  the  office  in  vain.  Good  bye. 

Your  aft'.  Cousin,  LUTE 

MIDDLEBURY,  May  2Qth,  '33. 
DEAR  COUSIN  MELLIE: 

Here  I  am,  in  the  good  town  of  Middlebury ;  its  gray  old 
college  staring  me  in  the  face  ;  the  famed"  green  mountains  " 
rear  themselves  around  me,  their  proud  tops  half  hidden  by 
the  light  mist  which,  driven  from  the  valleys,  clings  around 
their  summits,  as  if  reluctant  to  float  on  heavenward ;  the 
rich  fields  are  smiling  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  bob-o-link 
is  trilling  his  song  as  merrily  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  heart  desolation  in  the  world.  You  will  probably  wonder 
at  my  dating  from  M.,  but  the  "  thread  of  true  love  "  is  not 
the  only  one  that  does  not  run  straight  and  smooth,  and  we 
are  continually  reminded, 

11  There's  a  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will." 

School  closed  three  weeks  ago  last  Friday.  Mrs.  W.  was 
taken  sick.  Last  Sabbath  they  discovered  that  her  lungs 
were  diseased.  Monday  counsel  was  called,  and  pronounced 
her  case  very  critical.  Monday  night  she  failed  very  fast,  and 
Tuesday,  about  twelve  o'clock,  she  died.  She  was  perfectly 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  ioi 

aware  of  her  condition,  and  talked  freely  and  calmly  about 
it.  Her  death  was  easy  and  peaceful  —  just  as  the  taper 
burns  to  the  socket  —  nickers — expires.  The  death-bed 
scene  was  very  impressive  to  me.  When  they  saw  that  she 
was  sinking,  I  called  in  the  minister  and  a  few  neighbors. 
When  we  entered  the  room  she  was  lost  to  consciousness  — 
had  already  entered  the  dim,  mysterious  realm,  where  the 
golden  light  of  heaven  meets  and  mingles  with  the  dark 
shadows  of  earth.  We  knelt  in  prayer,  and  in  a  short,  earn 
est  petition,  the  man  of  God  commended  her  to  the  Saviour, 
and  prayed  that  her  departing  spirit  might  be  received  where 
there  is  "  fullness  of  joy  forevermore."  Oh,  Mellie,  how  are 
we  taught  the  evanescence  of  all  things  earthly !  How  are 
we  admonished  that 

u  Life  is  but  shadows  —  save  a  promise  given 
That  lights  the  future  with  a  fadeless  ray," 

and  when  we  see  the  earnest,  the  hopeful  and  the  young 
dropping  away  from  the  dusty  path  of  life,  how  fitting  seems 
the  blessed  entreaty  — 

"  Come,  touch  the  scepter— win  a  hope  in  heaven, 
Come,  turn  thy  spirit  from  the  world  away." 

Mrs.  W.  has  always  treated  me  with  marked  kindness,  and 
I  have  been  in  her  society  so  much  for  the  last  six  months, 
and  enjoyed  it  so  well,  that  her  death  seems  more  like  a 
dream  than  a  reality.  There  are  dark  spots  on  the  sun  of 
life,  Mellie,  but  let  us  pray  for  each  other  that  we  may  so 
live  that  we  may  at  last  be  received  into  that  bright  world 
where 

11  Each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again." 

I  was  very  much  pleased  with  your  comparison  of  our 
characters,  till  you  made  the  exception  in  my  favor.  Pooh, 
Mellie,  you  didn't  mean  to  flatter  me,  I  know,  but  you  are  a 
little  mistaken  as  to  my  abilities.  You  know  every  neighbor- 


IO2 


hood,  and  almost  every  family,  has  some  "  wondrous  child," 
who  is  to  "  bring  the  flown  muses  back  to  men."  I  suppose 
I  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  deemed  one  of  that  class. 
What  I  might  do  I  know  not,  but  I  never  have  accomplished 
anything,  either  in  study  or  writing,  above  mediocrity.  Dur 
ing  the  past  six  or  eight  months  I  have  read  a  good  deal  of 
our  best  English  literature,  and  while  I  have  enjoyed  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  in  reading  it,  I  have  been  enabled  to  see 
plainly  my  thrice  diminished  inferiority.  I  have  lately  been 
into  the  prose  works  of  Coleridge.  They  are  a  rich  mine  of 
thought.  One  feels,  on  laying  down  the  book,  as  if  he  had 
been  carried  to  some  high  eminence,  where  the  soul  breathed 
in  its  native  air.  I  never  got  at  the  wealth  of  Burns  till 
lately.  His  melodies  flow  as  free  and  artless,  as  sweet  and 
charming,  as  the  bird  songs.  My  love  for  Willis  "  grows 
with  my  growth."  His  earlier  poems  I  like  the  best.  There 
is  a  tenderness  —  a  delicacy  —  a  fragrance  —  a  truthfulness 
about  them  which  is  truly  bewitching.  While  they  glitter 
with  beauty  like  a  polished  diamond,  they  are  still  the  reposi 
tories  of  his  true  heart-life,  and  they  will  be  read  as  long  as 
poesy  is  loved  and  admired. 

The  scenery  around  the  mountains  here  is  grand.  The 
breezes  give  one  new  life  and  vigor.  I  never  enjoyed  the 
spring  so  much  before.  It  seems  as  if  I  should  love  to  give 
myself  up  to  its  sweet  influences  ;  "  commune  with  Nature  in 
her  visible  forms,"  and  learn  lessons  of  gratitude  and  thanks 
giving  to  the  great  Author  of  all.  What  a  beautiful  figure 
that  is  which  represents  heaven  as  an  eternal  spring ! 

Your  coz.,  LUTE. 

Under  date  of  May  12,  1855,  he  writes,  in  refer 
ence  to  abandoning  the  idea  of  attending  college,  as 
follows : 

You  say  you  wish  to  know  my  plans.  My  whole  stock  of 
plans  at  present  are  these  —  to  write  a  little,  eat,  and  go  to 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  103 

bed.  The  idea  of  going  to  college  I  have  pretty  much  given 
up.  There  are  evils  in  life  about  as  bad  as  ignorance,  and 
one  of  these  is  to  be  everlastingly  in  debt  —  a  calamity. which, 
with  heaven's  help,  shall  never  overtake  me.  I  have  neither 
grace  nor  genius  enough  so  that  I  could  conscientiously  re 
ceive  aid  from  any  benevolent  society,  and  so  the  by-laws  of  my 
constitution  seem  to  preclude  my  going  to  college.  Long 
fellow,  in  "  Hyperion,"  says,  "  The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is 
like  the  setting  of  the  sun."  But,  you  know,  when  the  sun 
sets  the  stars  come  coyly  out,  and  so  I  may  find  many  quiet 
joys  and  wayside  pleasures  from  which  a  college  life  would 
shut  me  out.  But  the  sun  of  my  hope  has  not  wholly  set, 
though  its  disc  has  dipped  sadly  below  the  horizon. 

SABBATH,  5  O'CLOCK,  P.  M. 
DEAR  MELLIE: 

I  wish  you  were  here  this  afternoon.  It  is  not  always  we 
feel  like  visiting,  but  if  you  were  here  now  I  know  we  would 
have  a  quiet,  pleasant  and  cousinly  chat. 

You  made  a  little  apology  for  writing  in  a  spirit  somewhat 
sad.  No  need  of  it,  dear  cousin.  For  myself,  I  never  intend 
to  fish  with 

"  The  fool's  bait  —  melancholy, 
For  the  gudgeon  —  opinion," 

but  the  cloud  and  the  sunshine  alternate  in  the  summer 
heaven  ;  and  so,  sometimes,  the  clouds  will  dim  the  sunshine 
in  the  happiest  heart.  I  do  truly  believe  that  Sorrow  is  holier 
than  joy,  and  tears  lie  nearer  the  heart  than  smiles.  I  know 
that  the  letters  which  I  most  carefully  preserve  and  oftenest 
re-read  are  not  those  which  sparkle  with  wit,  but' those  which 
dim  the  eye  and  awaken  serious  thought.  I  like  to  receive 
letters  from  you,  cousin,  written  in  every  mood  of  mind,  be 
cause  they  give  me  the  assurance  that  you  have  a  whole-hearted 
sympathy  with  me,  and,  I  trust,  I  have  the  same  with  you. 
To  most  of  my  correspondents  I  reveal  only  one  phase  of. 
character,  but  to  you  I  write  in  all  moods. 


104  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

I  frequently  have  such  doubts  and  fears  as  you  relate.  I 
hardly  know  what  to  think  of  my  spiritual  state.  I  know  I 
have  a  love  to  God  for  his  goodness,  ye't  I  have  little  of  the 
spirit  of  devotion.  Faith  often  is  weak,  and  painted  visions 
bf  sin  have  a  strange  charm,  and  I  feel  a  mysterious  power 
tempting  me  to  shake  oft'  all  restraint  and  lead  a  life  of  wild 
and  reckless  freedom.  The  set  phrases  of  theology  appear  to 
trie  dead  and  Unmeaning.  I  have  bothered  my  brain  too 
riiuch  with  metaphysical  reasoning  —  with  speculation  on 
things  "  beyond  the  reaches  of  the  soul."  My  belief  in  creeds 
is  shaken,  but  I  still  hold  firmly  to  the  belief  that  the  name 
of  Christ  is  the  only  one  given  under  heaven  among  men 
whereby  we  may  be  saved.  This  afternoon  the  minister  took 
for  his  text,  "  Come  unto  me,  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  I  looked  for  a  description  of 
the  felt  wants  of  the  soul  —  of  those  yearnings  for  something 
higher  and  holier  —  of  that  strange  unrest  we  often  feel; 
and  then,  I  thought,  the  love  of  Christ  and  the  rest  of  heaven 
would  be  shown  in  words  of  lyrical  power  and  beauty  which 
would  lure  the  weary,  wandering  soul  to  Calvary,  while  the 
choir,  I  thought,  would  surely  close  with  that  sweet  hymn  of 
Moore's,  "  Come,  ye  disconsolate,"  etc.  But  the  sermon  was 
logical,  and  the  music  noisy  and  heartless,  and  I  came  away 
dissatisfied,  but,  perhaps,  all  the  fault  was  with  myself. 

Ah,  cousin,  the  way  of  life  will  sometimes  look  dark  and 
uncertain,  but  we  must  walk  forward  with  what  faith  we 
may  have. 

"  It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down, 
It  may  be  we  shall  reach  the  happy  isles." 

I  have  been  reading  "  Bertha  and  Lilly ;  or,  the  Parsonage 
at  Beech  Glen,"  by  Mrs.  Oakes  Smith.  The  style  is  pure  and 
musical ;  the  thought  fresh,  strong  and  elevating.  It  is  writ 
ten  in  earnestness,  and  deals  some  strong  blows  at  existing 
practices  in  social  and  religious  life.  There  are  a  few  things 
which  I  do  not  like,  but,  as  a  whole,  I  value  it  highly.  It 
draws  character  in  clear  and  vigorous  lines  ;  it  deals  more 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  105 

with  inner  than  with  outward  experiences,  and  is  admirably 
fitted  to  awaken  thought  upon  those  things  which  most  con 
cern  us  as  immortal  beings.  Bertha  is  a  calm,  intellectual} 
spiritual  woman,  with  that  divine  intuition  which  sees  truth 
however  hidden,  and  the  moral  courage  to 

"  Dare  all  things  which  she  knows  to  be  right." 

She  has  a  soul  filled  with  poetry  and  passion,  but  she  sits  a 
queen  over  it,  and  its  desires  and  loves  are  holy. 

I  send  you  a  little  scrap  of  rhyme,  not  because  I  value  it 
much,  or  suppose  you  will,  but  friends  are  apt  to  be  indulgent 
critics.  It  came  without  calling,  one  Sabbath  evening,  and  so 
I  took  a  pencil  and  jotted  it  down,  just  to  treat  it  hand 
somely,  as  I  would  any  guest.  As  I  grow  older  I  enjoy 
poetry  with  a  keener  relish,  and,  as  I  have  a  truer  perception 
of  what  poetry  is,  I  make  fewer  rhymes  ;  indeed,  I  have  done 
making  poetry.  Your  cousin, 

LUTE. 


MADRID,  Aug.  iqth,  '33. 
DEAR  COUSIN  MELLIE: 

Will  you  never  write  to  me  again?  Do  the  duties  of  life 
press  so  closely  on  you  you  can  find  no  time  to  use  the  pen? 
Did  you  not  know  you  promised,  when  you  went  away,  to 
answer  some  of  my  letters?  I  believe,  if  I  want  to  hear 
from  my  friends,  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Oregon,  or  somewhere 
eTse.  If  you  do  not  write  before  long,  I  will —  come  (or  go, 
rather,)  to  Canton,  to  see  what  the  matter  is.  To-day  I  felt 
a  strange  unrest.  I  was  going  to  take  Byron,  and  lose  my 
self  in  the  wild,  rushing  current  of  his  verse ;  but  I  knew  I 
was  not  in  the  right  state  of  mind  to  go  to  him,  so  I  over 
came  the  temptation,  and  got  a  package  of  letters  of  yours 
and  others,  and,  need  I  say,  I  spent  a  pleasant  and  profitable 

hour  in  their  perusal.     Dear  L !  she  seems  dearer  to  me 

now  than  ever,  for  she  has  passed  the  Stygian  stream,  and 
entered  the  "  bright  city  of  our  God."     How  true  it  is, 


io6  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

*'  We  know  not  of  love's  might 
Till  death  has  robed,  with  soft  and  solemn  light, 
The  image  We  enshrine." 

Her  quiet  and  serene  trust  in  the  Heavenly  Father  while 
stepping  from  the  shore  of  life  into  the  wide,  unknown  future, 
has  given  me  more  of  faith  than  could  all  the  reasoning  of 
theologians.  I  see  her  to-night  as  I  did  the  morning  when 
I  last  saw  her  in  life.  She  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  during 
family  devotion,  and  well  I  remember  the  expression  of  her 
countenance  as  she  joined  you  in  singing  the  hymn, 

"  Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss,"  etc. 

As  the  hymn  was  being  sung,  I  thought  the  petition  for  "a 
calm  and  thankful  heart "  was  answered,  and  I  have  often 
since  thought  how  surely  did  his  presence  "  crown  her  jour- 
ney's  end."  I  have  never  since  listened  to  that  hymn  but,  in 
fancy,  I  have  seen  her  pale,  sweet  face,  and  heard  her  low 
voice  mingle  in  the  strain.  Do  you,  Mellie,  feel  certain  that 
there  is  a  better  world  —  a  heaven  where  loved  ones  live  in 
very  truth?  At  times  I  feel  a  full  conviction  this  is  so,  but, 
again,  doubts  will  come  that  there  is  any  intelligent  life  be 
yond  the  tomb.  I  know  better,  but  I  have  not  faith  enough 
to  drive  the  devil  away. 

Is  it  unkind  in  me,  Mellie,  to  call  up  to  your  mind  thoughts 
that  dim  the  eye  and  sadden  the  heart.  If  so,  forgive  me. 
But  you  will  not  think  so.  If  the  dead  live,  and  we  are  to 
live  with  them,  why  not  talk  and  think  of  them  as  we  do  of 
other  friends  separated  from  us.  I  believe  one  of  the  great 
joys  of  heaven  will  be  the  opportunity  for  friends  to  hold 
free  and  unrestrained  communion  with  each  other.  To-night 
I  have  felt  kind  love  for  many  friends,  and  longed  to  sit  by 
their  side,  and  quietly  and  pleasantly  hold  heart  communion 
with  them.  But  when  we  meet  we  shall  be  soiled  with  the 
sweat  and  dust  of  worldly  life ;  we  shall  chat  about  the  insig 
nificant  things  of  the  present,  and  thoughts  that  in  quiet  hours 
plead  for  utterance  will  be  forgotten.  How  rare  it  is  here 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  107 

On  the  earth  that  two  kindred  spirits  meet  in  that  high  sphere 
of  friendship,  where,  without  restraint,  the  heart  can  speak  of 
its  hopes  and  fears,  its  wants  and  desires,  its  visions  of  beauty, 
its  vague  yearnings  for  the  good  unattained.  But  I  must, 
write  no  more  now,  lest  I  grow  gloomy,  and  I  am  determined 
to  cut  the  acquaintance  of  the  blues.  So  good  night,  cousin, 
and  God  grant  that 

"  We  may  walk  this  world 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 
And  go  through  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows." 

Your  cousin, 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 

MADRID,  SABBATH,  P.  M.,  Aug.  26th,  '55. 
MY  DEAREST  COUSIN  : 

Many  thanks  to  you  for  your  last  letter.    Oh,  cousin,  how 

such  words  of  kindness,  of  confidence  and  trust  lift  the  soul 

into  a  better  atmosphere  and  make  life  more  bearable!    You 

ask  Mellie  that  I  will  not  think  any  the  less  of  you  for  show- 

ing'me  some  passages  of  your  inner  life.    O  no  ;  I  feel  assured 

that  the  better  we  understand  each  other,  the  broader  will  be 

our  ground  of  sympathy.     Forgive  me,  cousin,  for  my  words 

of  indifference  at  parting  with  you.     I  was  sorry  the  moment 

the  words  had  passed  my  lips.     The  thought  of  repelling  any 

flattery  on  your  part  never  entered  my  mind.      Never,  even 

in  thought, have  I  accused  you  oi  flattery;  though  sometimes 

I  have  thought  you  overrated  my  abilities.     I  felt  sad  to  see 

you  drive  away,  for  I  felt  that,  probably,  our  paths  in  life 

would  be  widely  separated,  and  that  I  might  soon  lose  even 

your  occasional  companionship.     I  do  not  think  I  am  very 

reserved  or  cold  in  language  when  with  friends  I  love  and 

trust,  but  I  have  an  antipathy  to  expressing  feeling  before 

others,  and  so  my  words  often  give  the  lie  to  my  thought.    It 

may  be  a  weakness,  and  I  think  it  is,  but  you  must  set  down 

to  its  account  any  unmeaning  or  indifferent  words  I  may  ever 


io8  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

speak  to  you.  I  suppose,  Mellie,  if  I  was  a  philosopher,  I 
should  prove  that  as  excessive  joy  is  often  shown  by  tears, 
and  the  most  crushing  grief  finds  vent  in  hollow  laughter,  so 
the  truest  and  deepest  love,  despairing  to  truly  interpret 
itself  in  affectionate  speech,  throws  out  light  words  of  indiffer 
ence  or  jest. 

But  I  must  tell  you  some  good  news.  I  have  got  four 
new  books:  "Memoirs  of  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,"  in  two 
volumes ;  her  "  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,"  and  "  The 
Blithedale  Romance,"  by  Hawthorne.  Mother  thought  I  was 
a  little  foolish  to  get  them,  but  she  does  not  understand  my 
case.  Books  are  a  necessary  adjunct  of  my  life.  I  do  not 
look  upon  the  reading  of  books  as  the  end  of  life,  but  as  a 
means  to  enable  one  to  understand  the  right  end  of  life,  and 
as  helps  to  fulfill  it.  By  nature  I  am  not  a  thinker.  The 
necessities  of  my  being  do  not  compel  me  into  thought. 
Without  the  aid  of  books  I  should  sink  into  an  animal,  and 
I  feel  that  is  a  thing  to  be  shunned.  The  past  year,  which  I 
have  spent  at  home,  has  been  very  pleasant  and  profitable  for 
my  heart,  but  my  head  has  been  a  loser.  A  few  fancies  like 
the  "Chamber  Scene"  have  been  almost  its  only  tenants. 
The  fact  is,  if  one  labors  in  the  earth  his  thoughts  will  be 
earthy.  Shakspeare  is  right  where  he  says  one's  nature 

11  Is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand." 

For  this  reason,  I  believe  the  farmer — the  business  man 

has  urgent  need  of  those  books  which  serve  to  quicken  and 
keep  alive  the  ethereal  spirit  within  him.  The  memoirs  of 
Margaret  Fuller  have  done  more  for  me  than  any  other  book 
I  ever  read,  excepting,  of  course,  the  Book  of  God.  She  has 
taught  me,  more  than  any  other,  "  to  open  the  deeper  foun 
tains  of  the  soul,  to  regard  life  here  as  the  prophetic  entrance 
to  immortality,  to  develop  the  spirit  towards  perfection."  I 
feel  I  am  a  slow  learner,  yet  my  reverence  for  the  teacher  is 
none  the  less.  Were  I  a  Catholic,  she  would  be  my  chosen 


saint. 


109 

Sept.  2d. —  I  have  been  at  home  to-day  with  the  children. 
I  have  been  reading  most  of  the  time,  and  it  has  been  a  calm 
and  blessed  day.  I  suppose  we  ought  to  go  to  church ;  but, 
after  all,  I  do  not  think  I  get  as  much  good  as  by  staying  at 
home.  Amid  the  waving  of  fans,  the  rustling  of  ribbons  and 
silks,  the  snoring  of  the  sleepers,  and  the  idle  or  satisfied 
look  of  the  men  or  women  cased  in  Sunday  clothes,  my 
thought  does  not  so  easily  take  hold  of  the  high  views  of  life 
as  when  alone.  We  have  been  reading  the  "Blithedale  Ro 
mance  "  evenings.  When  I  first  read  this  book  it  interested 
and  excited  me  the  most,  I  think,  of  any  book  I  ever  read,  and 
my  interest  was  but  little  diminished  on  the  second  reading. 

I  could  see  the  thoughts  took  hold  of  L ,  for  his  prayer 

at  evening  worship  had  a  clearer  aim  —  a  greater  breadth  and 
earnestness.  I  judge  of  the  activity  of  a  person's  inner  life 
much  by  their  prayers.  If  there  is  new  and  rich  experience 
in  the  heart,  it  must  give  birth  to  new  and  meaning  words. 
But  with  the  most  who  pray,  does  not  one  stereotyped  form 
of  expression  last  them  through  life? 

But,  to  return  to  Hawthorne.  I  believe  he  has  a  hearty 
love  for  purity  and  truth,  but  his  keen  eye  detects  moral  de 
formity,  and  with  steady,  unflinching  hand,  he  lays  it  bare, 
not  in  bitterness,  but  in  sorrow.  Sometimes  he  lays  aside 
the  probe  and  pruning-knife,  walks  with  us  in  the  scenes  of 
nature,  and  indulges  in  pleasantry  and  humor.  But  I  do  not 
think  he  will  ever  be  read  by  the  multitude.  His  works  have 
not  enough  of  sensuousness  in  them.  But  he  will  be  read  by 
the  connoisseur  of  human  passion,  by  the  student  of  char 
acter,  by  those  interested  in  a  spiritual  life,  who  will  yet 
follow  out  thoughts  which  may  lead  them  to  doubt  things 
they  had  been  taught  to  believe. 

I  have  such  a  cold  I  cannot  spare  my  hand  from  my  nose 
Jong  enough  to  write  more.  .Yours, 

LUTE. 


no  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

RIVER  FALLS,  Wis.,  June  sjd,  1860. 
DEAR  COUSIN  MELLIE: 

Like  Daniel  Webster,  you  "  still  live."  Well,  Mellie,  I  am 
glad  to  hear  it.  I  have  a  recollection  of  formerly  correspond 
ing  with  you  —  indeed,  in  hunting  over  my  manuscript  treas 
ures,  this  afternoon,  I  saw  a  number  of  letters  which  I  am 
positive  were  in  your  handwriting.  I  also  think  I  have  a 
recollection  of  seeing  you  some  time  in  years  gone  by.  I 
think  I  went  with  you  once  to  the  "hill  country"  called 
Pierrepont,  one  autumn  day,  and  sat  beside  the  grave  of  one 
who  had  formerly  sat  often  with  you ;  and,  returning,  we 
stopped  at  a  place,  and  I  brought  away  a  little  case,  (which 
lies  in  my  secretary,  within  reach  of  me  now,)  which  always 
reminds  me  of  you. 

But  really,  dear  Mellie,  I  am  glad  you  have  written  once 
more  to  me.  I  have  been  expecting  to  write  to  you  for  a  long 
time,  but  have  not  done  it.  I  write  very  few  letters,  except 
what  my  business  compels  me  to,  and  I  have  nearly  lost,  if  I 
ever  had,  the  art  of  doing  it.  But  I  do  not  suppose  you  want 
a  nice  letter  from  me  —  a  kind  of  Lute-letter  will  suit  you 
better,  I  know.  I  supposed  you  were  owing  me  a  letter,  but 
perhaps  not. 

Say,  Mellie,  what  do  you  think  of  this  world?  I  have  an 
idea  that  it  is  quite  well  adapted  for  the  residence  of  just 
such  persons  as  you  and  I.  With  strawberry  shortcakes  and 
good  cigars,  and  a  good,  dear  mother  to  keep  me  in  clean 
linen  and  good  advice,  I  feel  very  well  reconciled  to  life. 

I  want  to  see  you,  Mellie,  and  become  acquainted  with  you 
in  the  character  of  Mrs.  and  mother.  What  are  you,  Mellie? 
A  girl  still?  or  a  patient,  thoughtful,  woman?  or  a  delightful 
combination  of  both?  Probably  Charlie  would  say  the  latter, 
but  I  would  not  give  a  five-cent  paper  of  chewing-tobacco  for 
his  opinion  on  the  subject.  What  do  you  think  of  Tom 
Moore's  "  Lalla  Rookh"  now?  What  of  the  novelists?  What 
of  all  the  rose-colored  dreams  of  boys  and  girls,  your  own 
former  achievements  in  that  line  included?  Isn't  marriage  a 


LUTE    TAYLORS   CHIP    BASKET.  Ill 

terrible  alchemist,  at  whose  touch  all  these  fair  and  fanciful 
combinations  of  things  dreamed  of  and  hoped  for,  crumble 
and  lie  charred  and  dead  in  the  crucible?  Understand,  now, 
I  believe  in  married  folks  loving  —  of  course  I  do  —  but  I 
want  to  know  whether  love  warmed  by  Hymen's  torch  is  like 
that  kindled  by  Cupid.  Is  it  a  patient  kind  of  Christian 
"putting  up"  with  things?  or  is  it  the  genuine  "seventh 
heaven  in  a  glance,"  tempest  in  a  teapot,  etc.?  An  early 
answer  is  desired. 

But  about  that  little,  dear,  diminutive  edition  of  humanity, 
who  doubtless  makes  you  so  much  trouble  and  gives  you  so 
much  joy — I  am  glad  she  has  learned  that  I  am  "mamma's 
cousin.'  Well,  you  give  that  little  one  a  kiss  for  me,  and  don't 
(as  I  know  you  will  be  apt  to)  tell  her  that  I  am  a  great  and 
good  man,  but  tell  her  I  am  a  jolly  fellow,  and  like  to  play 
with  the  little  girls,  and  tell  them  stories,  and  stand  them  on 
their  heads,  and  give  them  primers  and  candies,  and  so  on 
and  so  forth. 

But  I  have  to  go  away,  and  must  stop.  Please  write  soon, 
dear  cousin,  and  believe  me 

Yours  affectionately, 

LUTE. 

PRESCOTT,  June  ist,  1865. 
DEAR  COUSIN  MELLIE: 

I  suppose,  Mellie,  I  am  one  of  the  happiest  fellows  in  this 
world  —  in  fact,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  be.  The 
ambitions,  the  vague  desires,  the  feverish  unrest  which  boys 
of  any  spirit  always  feel,  have  quieted  down,  and  I  am  just  a 
happy,  contented,  jovial  fellow. 

I  shall  not  startle  the  world  any,  if  I  can  help  it  —  and  I 
am  pretty  sure  I  can.  For  my  wife  and  I  —  I  simply  pray 

"Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 

Let  us  float  adown  life's  stream 
Gently,  as  we  sometimes  float 
In  a  quiet  dream." 


Ii2  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

You,  Mellie,  would  enjoy  such  a  life,  I  know.  Work 
enough,  but  of  an  agreeable  kind;  leisure,  books,  music, 
friends,  rest.  I  believe  you  will  be  so  fixed  one  of  these  days  ; 
but  the  trouble  is,  life  is  short,  and  is  fast  going. 

Summer  opens  to-day  with  marvelous  beauty.  It  is  the 
day  of  mourning  for  the  great  man  gone,  and  the  almost 
Sabbath  stillness  is  broken  only  by  the  magnificent  steamer 
which  is  just  rounding  up  to  the  levee.  A  nation  solemnly 
mourns  to-day  and  sets  its  seal  of  approbation  on  the  official 
life  and  private  character  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

"  A  martyr  to  the  cause  of  man  ! 
His  blood  is  Freedom's  eucharist, 
And  in  the  world's  great  hero-list 
His  name  shall  lead  the  van." 

How  strange  it  is  that  many  good  men  will  be  such  fools. 
To-day  the  scholars  in  all  our  public  schools  met  together, 
and  there  was  singing,  prayer,  and  talk  about  Abraham  Lin 
coln.  The  talk  was  almost  all  sheer  nons&nse  and  ridiculous 
lies.  Abraham  Lincoln  was  represented  as  a  model  boy,  who 
never  swore,  or  played  in  the  dirt,  or  cried  for  bread  and 
butter,  or  chewed  tobacco,  or  licked  another  boy,  or  ran 
away,  or  did  anything  else  that  boys  like  to  do  ;  and' the  idea 
was  held  out  that  every  boy  there  might  be  President  if  he 
would  be  like  him.  How  ridiculous !  Half  those  children 
know  that  Andy  Johnson  was  President,  and  that  he  and  half 
our  other  Presidents  were  drunk  sometimes.  Such  namby- 
pamby  talk  does  not  deceive  half  the  children  even,  and  those 
who  do  believe  it  now  as  they  grow  older  will  see  that  it  was 
all  false— that  it  takes  brain  and  work  and  power  to  win 
position,  and  that  immoral  habits,  unless  exceedingly  gross, 
are  no  bar  to  high  official  standing.  Integrity,  ability  and 
capacity  are  wanted  to  manage  public  affairs,  and  the  skeptic 
is  as  apt  to  have  these  as  the  churchman. 

Then  there  were  over  one  hundred  little  girls  there,  and  a 
good  man  and  great  fool  talked  to  them  — how  when  they 
grew  up  to  be  young  women  they  should  never  marry  or  have 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  113 

anything  to  do  with  a  young  man  who  chewed  tobacco, 
smoked  cigars,  played  cards,  or  drank  beer.  Wasn't  that 
silly?  I  should  have  been  an  old  bachelor  under  that  admin 
istration  of  affairs,  surely.  I  do  all  these  things,  and  yet  my 
wife  thinks  and  says  I  am  the  best  husband  in  the  world  — 
and  I  believe  her.  Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  rattle  on  this  way 
—  a  model  letter  this  will  be.  Yours  always, 

LUTE. 

The  following  are  extracts  from  letters  to  a  young 
lady  friend : 

LA  CROSSE,  Oct.  8th,  1872. 
MY  DEAR  M : 

Have  you  got  entirely  out  of  patience  with  me  for  neglect 
ing  to  write  you  ?  Have  you  "  admitted  "  (entirely  to  yourself) 
that  Lute  Taylor  is  not  the  gentleman  you  supposed  him  to 
be  ?  Have  you  vowed,  in  silence,  to  let  him  go  many  weeks 
or  months  without  another  welcome  letter  from  you  ? 

Ah,  my  dear  girl,  if  you  have  done  all  and  several  of  these 
things,  I  pray  you  to  reconsider.  Your  letters  have  been 
gladly  welcomed  and  greatly  enjoyed  by  me.  I  have  thought 
of  you  perhaps  more  than  a  married  man  should  think  of  an 
interesting  and  talented  young  lady.  To  all  this,  I  am  willing, 

Miss  M ,  to  make  oath  before  any  notary  public  who  has 

a  seal,  or  any  magistrate,  officer  or  judge  who  is  legally  quali 
fied  to  receive  solemn  evidence. 

Why,  then,  you  indignantly  ask,  have  you  not  written  to 
me,  when  you  knew  I  was  among  strangers  and  would  highly 
prize  a  letter? 

My  dear  girl,  when  will  you  learn  to  have  patience,  and 
not  interrupt  a  person  when  he  is  making  a  statement?  I  fear 
you  do  not  fully  comprehend  the  great  benevolence  and  self- 
abnegation  of  my  nature.  You  know  that  there  is  no  diviner 
act  than  forgiveness.  It  is  exalting,  ennobling.  I  am  anxious 
to  have  you  as  noble  as  possible.  You  must  have  occasion  to. 
8, 


ii4  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

forgive.  It  is  education.  You  can  now  forgive  me,  and  thus 
I  will  be  an  humble  instrument  in  promoting  your  greatest 
good. 

Oct.  i?tk.  —  Well,  now,  this  is  something  of  a  recess,  is  it 
not?  Broke  oft'  imperatively — then  a  few  days'  absence,  a 
few  days'  sickness,  the  inexorable  claims  of  business,  the  una 
voidable  claims  of  politics,  and  the  numerous  claims  of  social 
courtesy,  and  —  well,  here  I  am  at  7  A.  M.,  and  nothing  mortal 
can  get  audience  of  me  until  I  have  finished,  enveloped,  di 
rected  this  letter,  and  placed  it  in  the  mailing-box. 

When  this  confounded  election  excitement  is  over,  you  will 
find  me  a  more  reliable  correspondent.     This  letter  I  don't 
count  anything,  for  it  does  not  amount  to  anything;  but"by- 
and-by  "  I  will  atone  for  it,  and  until  then  believe  me 
Your  friend, 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 


LA  CROSSE,  Sunday,  Sept.  8th,  1872. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 
.  Your  very  welcome  letter  came  Friday  morning. 

I  have  never  read  a  letter  from  you  with  greater  pleasure 
than  this  one.  You  were  a  trifle  "  blue,"  my  glad-hearted, 
exuberant-spirited  girl ;  and  do  you  know  that  when  we  have 
the  "'blues  "  we  tell  the  truth,  and  we  write  only  to  those  with 
whom  the  invisible  ties  of  mutual  liking  and  natural  compan 
ionship  are  strong  ?  And  so  your  letter  conferred  a  pleasure 
and  conveyed  a  compliment. 

Of  course  I  know  you  have  the  "blues"  —  seasons  of  de 
pression —  occasionally.  They  are  the  penalty  of  intense 
spiritual  life  and  rich  intellectual  endowment.  The  pendulum 
which  swings  high  in  one  arc  of  the  circle  vibrates  to  as  high 
an  opposing  place,  and  so  high  as  the  singing  soul  sits  on  the 
fancy-lighted  mount  of  hope  and  joy,  so  low  must  it  darkly 
descend  into  valleys  of  cruel  doubt  and  almost  shuddering 
despair.  It  is  the  law  of  compensation,  you  know  The 
giddy  girls  of  your  rural  neighborhood  know  nothing  of  the 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  115 

fine  ecstacy  of  your  inspired  hours,  but  neither  is  it  possible 
for  them  to  feel  the  sharp  pain,  the  exquisite  agony  which  will 
sometimes  torture  you  in  dumb  hours  of  doubt  and  distrust. 
Genius,  power,  breadth  of  vision,  intensity  of  feeling,  quick 
and  sensitive  perception  —  these  are  glorious  gifts,  but  they  are 
regal,  and  imperative  also.  Such  splendid  guests  cannot  be 
lightly  entertained.  But  if  such  life  is  not  a  boon,  then  anni 
hilation  would  be  the  goal  of  happiness. 

Very  truly  your  friend, 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 


LA  CROSSE,  August  i8th,  1872. 
MY  DEAR  Miss  M : 

Your  pleasant  letter,  with  photo,  inclosed,  came  yesterday 
morning,  and,  for  once,  I  will  not  let  procrastination  steal 
away  the  time  for  answering  it. 

I  am  glad  that,  in  epistolary  matters,  you  find  it  "more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,"  and  are  willing  to  write  me 
six  letters  for  one  in  return.  But,  my  dear  girl,  I  shall  not 
allow  you  to  do  it.  No  lady  whom  I  like  can  have  all  the 
talking  to  herself  when  I  am  around.  But  I  am  glad  you  are 
not  exacting,  and  will  not  resent  any  apparent  neglect  on  my 
part. 

Do  you  know  that  I  am  very  glad  that  our  brief  personal 
acquaintance  is  ripening  into  mutual  friendship  and  esteem. 
Knowledge  is  increased,  experience  enlarged,  and  life  enriched 
with  every  worthy  new  friend.  Men  and  women  are  the 
flower  of  earthly  life,  and  superior  to  all  the  attractions  that 
even  affluent  Nature  can  offer.  To  learn  one  of  these  well  is 
more  and  better  than  to  learn  a  new  language  or  visit  a 
foreign  clime.  And  so,  I  prize  my  life  as  richer  since  you 
have  come  within  its  horizon,  and  become  one  of  the  small 
but  cherished  company  who  share  its  thought,  encourage  its 
toil,  and  awaken  its  love. 

Many  thanks  for  the  photo.  It  is  a  charming  picture,  and 
I  think  a  good  likeness.  I  expected  to  ask  you  for  one,  but 


n6  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

had  not,  as  I  think  I  am  probably  the  most  timid  and  modest, 
if  not  bashful,  gentleman  of  your  acquaintance. 

Do  not  work  too  hard,  —  do  not  let  the  fever  of  fancy  burn 
up  the  rich  blood  of  life.  And  you  will  not.  Youth  is  prodi 
gal  of  wealth ;  but  coming  days  will  inevitably  teach  you  to 
carefully  gather  the  harvest  of  thought,  and  only  offer  what  is 
worthiest  and  best. 

It  is  the  bane  of  active  newspaper  writing  that  one  has 
no  time  to  improve  ;  but  you  will  never  be  connected  with  a 
paper  so  as  to  feel  this  tyrannous  pressure. 

But  —  good-bye  for  the  present.  Remember  that,  among 
all  your  friends,  none  feel  more  joy  in  your  success,  or  more 
faith  in  your  future,  than  LUTE. 

The  following  extracts  are  from  letters  to  a  for 
mer  correspondent  of  Mr.  Taylor's  paper,  who  wrote 
over  the  signature  of  "Belle." 

PRESCOTT,  Wis.,  April  27 'th,  1868. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND  Miss  BELLE: 

Have  you  about  made  up  your  mind  that  I  was  not  intend 
ing  t©  answer  your  two  very  welcome  little  letters?  Well, 
that  just  shows  how  the  best  of  women  will  be  mistaken 
sometimes.  Their  intuitions,  rapid  as  lightning,  outrunning 
the  processes  of  reasoning,  are  generally  unerring  as  logic, 
but  not  always  so. 

I  warrant,  Miss  Belle,  that  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
my  long  delay  is  the  most  convincing  proof  of  the  sincerity 
and  strength  of  my  friendship.  But  you  will  admit  it  now,  I 
know.  You  know  that  if  I  should  receive  a  pleasant  note 
from  a  pleasant  lady,  of  whose  good  opinion  I  was  careless, 
that  I  should  hasten  to  answer  it.  Courtesy,  and  every  in 
stinct  of  a  gentleman,  would  prompt  to  this.  But  with  a  friend, 
you  know—  a  real  friend  — whose  confidence  we  hold  by  n<5  un 
certain  tenure  —  how  different  it  is !  One  does  not  have  to  be 
punctilious,  —  he  presumes  on  the  friendship,  and  shows  the 


LUTE    TAYLORS    CHIP    BASKET.  117 

strength  of  his  confidence  by  the  amount  of  his  presumption 
He  sins  with  impunity,  because  he  knows  he  is  sure  of  for 
giveness.  You  will  thus  see,  friend  Belle  (what,  come  to 
reflect,  you  must  have  seen  before),  that  my  delay  in  writing 
has  been  only  a  delicate  avowal  of  a  feeling  for  you  such  as  I 
would  have  if  I  had  been  lucky  enough  to  have  been  your 
cousin,  or,  in  some  other  way,  been  made  sure  of  a  permanent 
place  in  your  kind  remembrance.  [Just  here  let  me  say  it 
will  not  be  necessary  for  you  to  acquaint  me  with  your  feel 
ings  in  a  similar  manner.] 

But  again,  Miss  Belle,  some  way  I  have  been  terribly  busy 
about  nothing  for  several  months,  —  away  much  of  the  time ; 
and  when  I  had  time  to  write,  it  seemed  as  if  my  mind  was 
too  dull  to  write  to  you.  You  never  have  been  a  business 
man,  have  you  ?  Well,  don't  be.  It  is  terribly  irksome  much 
of  the  time.  I  came  down  to  my  office  to-night  to  write  busi 
ness  letters,  but  such  employment  seems  like  profaning  the 
sweet,  sacred  beauty  of  the  night.  I  was  disgusted  with  it ; 
and  so  I  write  to  you,  —  a  sort  of  grace  before  meal,  —  a 
placid  morning  prayer  before  the  sharp  struggles  of  the  day. 

But  I  must  begin  writing  this  letter.  Let  us  be  very 
proper,  and  commence  on  the  conventional  topic  —  the 
weather.  Our  Spring,  making  fair  and  early  promise,  has 
been  very  slow  to  fulfill  her  pledge.  The  bluffs  are  yet  brown 
and  bare,  and  the  grass  only  just  tinges  the  fields  with  its  green. 
The  robin  has  just  come  to-day,  and  the  few  early  flowers 
"come  in  such  questionable  shape"  that  I  have  hardly  dared 
to  speak  to  them.  You,  I  know,  are  in  the  full  flowering  of 
greenness  and  beauty,  —  Spring  wearing  for  weeks  the  finest 
attire  her  wardrobe  supplies.  Yet  I  doubt  if  to-day  your 
eyes  have  feasted  on  much  greater  beauty  than  mine.  I 
watched  the  sunset,  and  the  brilliant  combinations  and  deli 
cate  shadings  of  color  for  a  half-hour  after,  until  I  felt  exhila 
rated  and  intoxicated  with  beauty,  and  the  blood  sprang  warm 
to  my  cheek,  as  if  the  life  and  vigor  of  rare  wine  was  in  its 
flow.  Lake  and  river  were  hushed,  still,  translucent,  —  a 


n8  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET". 

thin,  impalpable,  glory-lit  haze  brooding  over  them,  like  a 
gossamer  veil  on  the  face  of  a  bride,  —  the  heaven  above 
seeming  to  stoop  to  kiss  the  heaven  below,  save  where  the  red 
glory  of  the  descending  sun,  reflected  from  low-lying  clouds, 
glowed  on  the  waters  in  colors  as  rich  as  the  purple  stain 
which  a  lover's  clinging  kiss  leaves  on  the  lips  of  his  maid. 

I  just  now  think,  Belle,  of  several  things  I  would  like  to 
write  to  you  about ;  bvit  those  "  business "  letters  must  be 
attended  to.  Sincerely  your  friend, 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 

P.  S.  —  If  you  have  not  read  Owen  Meredith's  "Lucille," 
do  not  lose  an  opportunity  to  do  so.  It  is  a  pretty  ripe 
poem, — no  "Leaves  of  Grass."  LUTE. 

Under  date  of  June  20,  1868,  in  speaking  of 
friends,  he  says  of  his  mother: 

Mother  is  quite  smart,  but  yet  I  know  she  must  be  near- 
ing  the  close  of  life ;  and  she  seems  dearer  to  me  as  she 
draws  nearer  to  the  "  other  shore."  She  will  leave  mourners 
here,  but  she  will  find  friends  there. 

LA  CROSSE,  Wis.,  July  20,  1869. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND  BELLE: 

What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  —  I  mean  about  my 
totally  inexcusable  neglect  (as  it  seems  to  you)  to  write  to 
you?  What  have  you  done  with  me?  Am  I  blotted  out  of 
your  book  of  remembrance  —  erased  from  your  list  of  corre 
spondents  —  totally  non  est —  expunged — obliterated  —  gone? 

Begging  your  pardon,  Miss  Belle,  I  don't  believe  any  such 
thing.  When  you  have  thought  of  my  remissness  at  all,  it 
has  been  simply  to  regard  it  as  a  kind  of  mystery  —  like  the 
relation  between  free-will  and  fore-ordination,  —  something 
that  would  come  out  all  right,  and  be  satisfactorily  explained 
sometime. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  119 

Now,  let  me  explain  the  reasons  of  my  delay. 
1st.  I  delayed,  without  any  reason,  until  I  was  ashamed  of 
myself,  and  then  I  did  not  want  to  write  until  I  could  write  a 
good  letter,  and  I  have  waited  in  vain  for  that  time,  until  I 
give  it  up. 

2d.  It  is  so  pleasing  to  be  forgiven  by  a  pleasant  lady 
friend  —  to  say  "Peccavi"  and  be  absolved.  You  may  for 
give  me,  Miss  Belle,  —  I  assume  that  you  will,  and  I  feel  bet 
ter  already. 

3d.  The  practice  of  forgiveness  is  very  wholesome.  It  is 
not  only  of  itself  one  of  the  first-class  virtues,  but  it  strength 
ens  and  adorns  all  the  others  ;  and,  with  a  friendly  care  for 
the  beauty  and  symmetry  of  your  character,  I  have  given  you 
the  opportunity  to  forgive  me. 

There!  Am  I  reinstated  now  in  your  good  graces, — 
placed  again  on  the  old  footing  of  easy  and  informal  com 
panionship? Thank  you  ;  I  thought  you  would  excuse  me. 

You  have  read  "  Gates  Ajar."  of  course.  What  do  you 
think  of  it?  I  think  it  is  remarkable  —  not  a  mere  pleasing, 
ephemeral  book  ;  but  profound,  logical,  true.  I  believe  that, 
as  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  touched  the  national  heart, 
awakened  the  national  conscience,  and  gave  a  mighty  im 
pulse  to  that  political  action  which  has  revolutionized  the 
South,  and  blotted  out  slavery,  —  so  will  this  book  go  far  to 
awaken  new  and  better  trains  of  thought,  and  revolutionize 
the  commonly-accepted  ideas  of  heaven, —  or,  rather,  give  an 
idea  where  there  was  none  before.  I  believe  in  its  theories,  — 
always  have,  — though  I  never  gave  my  thought  tangible 
shape,  — never  tried  to  reason  on  the  matter,  as  this  book 
does.  I  have  often  insisted,  to  the  surprise  and  almost  hor 
ror  of  the  "  Deacon  Quirks,"  that,  if  I  ever  got  to  heaven,  I 
should  be  an  editor  or  reporter  on  the  Daily  Celestial  Sun. 

am  sure  of  it  now.     I  shall  send  the  book  to  L .     She  will 

enjoy  and  believe  it.     Do  you  know  L is  one  of  the  best 

women  in  the  world?     The  most  valued  compliment  I  ever 
had  was  that  I  was  a  good  deal  like  her.     Well,  I  think  I  am 


120  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

the  same  kind  of  a  Christian  that  she  is ;  but  she  is  a  great 
deal  better  one  of  the  kind  than  I  am. 

Well,  I  must  close.  I  think  this  is  long  enough  for  an 
apologetic  letter.  Very  truly  your  friend, 

LUTE  A.  TAYLOR. 

LA  CROSSE,  June  4th,  /<?//. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND  BELLE  : 

Now,  that  man  who  is  with  you  need  not  take  any  umbrage 
at  the  possessive  pronoun.  You  know  it  is  used  in  a  limited 
sense,  but  he  can't  rob  me  of  any  part  of  the  small  possession 
I  have  in  you— not  if  I  can  help  it.  It  might  be  as  well  to 
let  him  know  this  at  the  outset. 

Your  letter,  Belle,  brought  me  the  first  news  that  you  had 
exchanged  the  Miss  for  the  Mrs.  —  ceased  an  integral  exist 
ence  and  become  a  member  of  a  firm.  How  did  you  think  I 
would  know  it?  I  no  more  look  at  the  marriage  notices  in 
the  papers  than  you  do  at  the  calls  for  ward  caucuses,  or  the 
quotations  of  Pacific  Mail. 

So,  dear  Belle,  my  congratulations  come  late,  but  heartfelt 
and  sincere.  Most  heartily  do  I  hope  that  reality  may  surpass 
expectation,  and  the  promise  of  trustful  love  find  full  verifica 
tion  in  the  facts  of  daily  life.  I  do  not  believe  that  your 
husband,  or  any  man,  is  good  enough  to  call  you  wife,  though 
I  certainly  have  a  high  regard  for  him  from  the  fact  that  he 
is  your  husband.  Honestly,  Belle,  don't  you  think  that  the 
highest  compliment  a  woman  can  pay  a  man  is  to  marry  him  ? 
But  I  send  you  hearty  greeting.  You  know  what  Tennyson 
says  in  the  "Princess  ": 

"  Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference,'   etc. 
Well,  that  is  what  I  say  to  you. 

Appointing  you  my  proxy  to  introduce  me  to  "  Novy,"  as 
you  so  pleasantly  introduced  him  to  me  in  your  delightful  let 
ters,  and  furthermore,  and  finally,  warning  you  of  displeasure, 
if  not  disaster,  if  in  your  new  life  you  drop  me  from  your  list 
of  correspondents,  I  am  Yours  affectionately,  LUTE. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  121 


TWO   PICTURES. 

A  few  years  ago,  we  were  one  of  a  party  riding  by 
stage  from  this  city  to  Viroqua — a  tedious  journey  at 
this  season,  at  best  —  but  its  tedium  was  relieved  by 
pleasant  companions,  and  by  the  occasional  magnifi 
cent  stretches  of  scenery  which  almost  rivals  the 
Green  Mountains  of  Vermont,  or  the  unexcelled 
views  which  continually  delight  the  eye  about  Har 
per's  Ferry,  and  thence  westward  along  the  line  of 
the  Baltimore  &  Ohio  railroad.  When  near  our 
journey's  close,  a  sight  more  pleasing  than  any  we 
had  met  delighted  our  eyes. 

We  passed  a  party  of  comfortable  appearing  folk. 
Among  them  was  a  young  woman,  probably  about 
twenty-five  years  of  age.  She  was  a  brunette,  with 
fresh  complexion,  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  held  in 
her  arms  a  babe  which  looked  laughingly  from  be 
neath  its  protecting  hood.  But  the  mother  seemed 
even  more  happy  than  the  child.  She  appeared  to 
hold  up  the  beautiful  babe  as  a  challenge  to  all 
passers  to  share  her  joy  and  pride  in  its  possession. 
We  all  noticed  and  commented  upon  this  sweet  spec 
tacle  of  joyful  mother  and  happy  child.  Of  cours'e, 
some  pleasantry,  or  wit,  or  compliment  from  her 
companions  might  have  brightened  her  features  at 
that  moment,  but  her  look  of  sweet  satisfaction  and 
beaming  pleasure  seemed  as  if  it  dwelt  there  con 
tinually —  as  if  the  sacred  joy  and  pride  of  maternity 
so  filled  her  heart  that  it  swam  in  light  in  her  eyes, 


122  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

and  rippled  in  smiles  upon  her  face.    It  was  a  pleas 
ant   picture  —  more  pleasant   for  being   real  —  and 
each   of  us  who   witnessed   it  will  cherish  it   as   a 
"  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever." 
This  is  one  picture. 

The  next  morning  we  saw  its  counterpart.    It  was 
early  when  we  started  on  our  return.     The  vehicle 
itself— improvised  for  the  occasion  in  place  of  the 
regular  stage  —  was  open  and  ill-supplied,  with  two 
narrow  seats  facing  each  other,  without  the  remotest 
suggestion  of  comfort,  coziness   or  warmth.      The 
keen  wind  cut  through  our  own  abundant  clothing, 
as  we  stopped  to  take  in-  another  passenger.     She 
came.      Great    heavens!     What    an    apparition    of 
woe  !    It  seemed  as  if  direst  poverty,  utter  ignorance 
and  absolute  lunacy  combined  could  alone  suffice  to 
make  a  human  being  so  utterly  miserable  and  woe 
begone  as  she.     A  woman  of  forty  or  forty-five  years 
of  age,  with  heavy  shoes,  a  worn  calico  dress,  and 
evidently   little    under-clothing,   a    thin,   miserable, 
cotton  shawl,  a  light  worsted  hood  —  this  was  all 
her  protection  against  the  biting  blast.     Her  hands 
were  bare,  and   unkempt  hair   straggled   over  her 
sunken   eyes    and   desolate    face,   which   wore   that 
mottled,   lifeless   hue   which   is   the    most  touching 
evidence  of  extremest  suffering  and  want.     A  few 
worthless  rags  in  a  coarse  bag,  tossed  in  after  her, 
was  her  only  baggage  —  no,  not  all,  for  here  comes 
a  little  box;  there  is  a  smell  of  fresh  paint  on  it,  and 
it  is  of  that  shape  and  form  that  are  never  fashioned 
except  to  enclose  the  dead.    We  knew  by  the  hungry 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  123 

look  with  which  she  devoured  it  that  this  was  hers, 
and  crowding  it  under  the  narrow  seat,  we  went  rat 
tling  away. 

Of  course  it  took  but  a  short  time  to  recover  from 
our  stupor  of  amazement,  and,  with  the  assistance 
of  the  kind-hearted  driver,  wrap  her  up  in  tolerable 
comfort.  The  straggling,  almost  incredulous  smile 
of  gratitude  with  which  she  received  a  pair  of  warm 
woolen  gloves  was  something  better  to  remember 
than  the  smile  with  which  beauty  receives  her  jewels, 
or  wealth  the  luxuries  which  wealth  can  alone  con 
fer.  The  poor  creature  could  speak  but  a  few  words 
of  English,  but  we  learned  that  she  was  entirely  des 
titute  of  money,  that  she  was  traveling  from  Prairie 
du  Chien  to  Buffalo  county,  and  that  on  the  preced 
ing  evening  the  child  was  taken  from  her  arms,  on 
the  arrival  of  the  stage  at  Viroqua,  dead — dead 
without  her  knowledge  of  the  fact.  One  needed 
not  to  be  told  that  it  had  been  dying  since  its  birth, 
that  inadequate  food  and  clothing  had  combined  to 
sap  its  little  life,  which  finally  yielded  to  the  cold 
wind  of  a  winter  night,  and  somewhere  on  the 
dreary  road,  unnoticed  and  unknown,  drifted  out 
into  the  great  unseen.  Yesterday  nestling  close  to 
her  for  warmth  —  to-day  in  the  pine  box  under  the 
seat.  One  can  bear  to  look  on  the  fine  agony  of  a 
strong,  sensitive,  cultured  nature,  for  the  very  strength 
which  gives  intensity  to  suffering  will  bring  solace  in 
due  time;  but  here  was  wretchedness  —  weak,  un 
reasoning,  helpless  and  dumb. 

And  so  we  rode  all  the  day,  facing  this  picture  of 


124  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

want  and  despair  and  the  little  charity  coffin.  Look 
ing  at  this,  she  would  sometimes  reach  under  her 
wrappings,  and  get  out  her  worn  soiled  apron,  and 
(with  true  womanly  instinct  turning  it  to  the  wrong 
side)  wipe  the  half-frozen  tears  from  her  withered 
cheeks. 

The  luxury  of  tears,  the  divine  sorrow  of  maternal 
love,  was  all  that  was  left  her.  We  could  not  help 
believing  that  the  little  one  was  better  to-day  than 
yesterday,  better  in  the  coffin  than  suffering  and 
shivering  in  the  mother's  arms,  but  yet  her  grief 
could  be  assuaged  by  no  such  consolation  as  this. 
It  might  be  that  the  only  light  of  her  life  had  gone 
out,  that  those  thin  wasted  hands  were  the  only  ones 
that  caressed  her  cheeks,  those  little  pinched  lips 
the  only  ones  that  touched  hers  in  tenderness  and 
love.  Desolate  !  Desolate !  In  her  seemed  verified 
the  full  force  of  that  pregnant  passage  of  Scripture, 
"without  hope  in  the  world'' 

And  so  the  two  pictures  —  happy  mother  and  hag 
gard  wretch  —  smiling  babe  and  coffined  clay  — 
sunny  joy  and  shivering  desolation  — stand  before 
us  in  startling  antithesis,  and,  thus  strangely  mated, 
must  remain  in  the  close  keeping  of  memory  forever. 

POEMS — whether  in  prose  or  verse  —  are  simply 
open  letters.  No  one  ever  writes  a  really  good  thing 
without,  in  thought  at  least,  writing  it  to  somebody. 

IT  is  dreadful  easy  to  be  a  fool  —  a  man  can  be 
one  and  not  know  it. 


LUTE    TAYLORS    CHIP    BASKET  125 


FISHING,  AND  OTHER  THINGS. 

BEAR  TRAP  LAKE,  POLK  Co.,  Wis., 

June  1 2th,  1860. 
DEAR  JOURNAL : 

Is  there  room  for  anything  in  print  but  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars  ?  Will  matters  of  State  and  sensa 
tion  dispatches,  and  wonder  points,  and  military 
movements,  and  leaded  leaders,  make  way  for  a 
garrulous  article,  drifting  along  over  the  paper,  as 
aimless  as  a  boat  without  steersman  drifts  before  the 
capricious  wind? 

Sitting  in  this  log  cabin,  looking  out  upon  the 
water  broken  by  the  light  wind  into  sparkling  jets 
of  silver  upon  the  forest  trees,  with  coloring  so  rich 
that  they  seem  to  sparkle  with  the  light  of  intelli 
gence,  and  swaying  with  a  seemingly  conscious  nod, 
as  if  their  matutinal  salutations  were  not  over;  lis 
tening  to  the  varied  but  not  discordant  bird-notes, 
coming  like  morning  hymns  from  hundreds,  yes 
thousands,  of  swelling  throats;  seeing  no  throng  of 
human  life,  hearing  no  hum  of  human  labor ;  I  can 
hardly  realize  that  the  great  world  without  is  awed 
into  solemnity  by  the  tragic  events  of  the  day  — 
that  all  our  own  wide  land  is  a  drill  ground  for 
armies,  and  already  loving  hearts  are  sorrowing  for 
the  slain. 

Looking  at  the  baggy  style  of  my  clothing,  its 
somewhat  dirty  and  a  good  deal  dilapidated  con 
dition  ;  fishing  down  a  long  crane-necked  bottle  for 


126  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

a  little  muddy  ink,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  writing 
is  with  me  a  business,  and  "copy"  and  "proof- 
sheets  "  familiar  terms. 

You  float  over  the  placid  lake,  fringed  with  its 
setting  of  dark  pines,  and  its  shallows  rocking  on 
their  surface  the  broad-leaved  lily,  with  its  almost 
miraculous  beauty,  and  it  seems  like  the  dawn  of 
creation,  for  the  touch  of  time  has  not  marred  its 
perfect  beauty.  You  lie  under  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  and  listen  to  the  pufof  rivulets  in  the  woods, 
to  the  bird's  note  lessening  in  the  languid  air,  to  the 
thousand  sounds  of  varied  life  which  fill  the  forest 
with  a  low  delicious  murmur,  and  then  a  breeze 
sweeps,  like  the  motion  of  an  unseen  hand,  through 
the  leafy  greenness  —  the  foliage  shimmers  and 
lightly  sways,  and  you  feel 

"  A  divine 

Breath  of  the  summer,  full  of  coquetry, 
Happy  and  light  and  loving  as  a  kiss 
Upon  the  eyelids  from  the  woman  you  love." 

FROGS. 

But  what  have  frogs  to  do  with  fishing?  you  ask. 
A  vast  deal,  my  sapient  friend.  You  might  as  well 
try  to  have  a  wedding  without  a  woman  as  to  try  to 
catch  a  bass  or  pickerel  without  a  frog  —  the  thing 
can't  be  done  in  any  approved  and  decent  fashion. 

Now,  many  worthy  people  have  an  unworthy  preju 
dice  against  frogs  which  should  be  dispelled.  Being 
as  intimate  with  them  as  we  have  been,  watching 
eagerly  for  them  by  the  side  of  ponds,  holding  them 


LUTE    TAYLORS   CHIP    BASKET.  127 

tenderly  in  the  hand,  thrusting  vest  and  trowsers 
pockets  full  of  them,  occasionally  getting  a  small  one 
mixed  with  the  tobacco  and  smoking  him  in  our 
meerschaum,  we  have  come  to  a  tender  and  loving 
appreciation  of  their  excellence  and  merit.  As  dress 
is  always  a  matter  of  interest,  just  look  at  the  cos 
tume  of  the  frog — a  genuine  hunter's,  green  as  the 
grasses,  scrupulously  neat,  and  changing  the  whole 
suit  two  or  three  times  a  year.  Then  what  a  voice 
they  have  !  What  concerts  they  give  by  moonlight ! 
Then,  again,  a  "  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous 
kind,"  and  a  frog  is  very  like  a  man.  What  a  human 
leg  he  has !  How  nearly  its  formation  and  appear 
ance  is  like  our  own !  Then,  .who  has  not  seen  men 
with  frog-like  look— bald-pated,  short-necked,  puffy- 
cheeked  and  wide  mouthed  ?  Such  men  are  not 
apt  to  rule  in  political  conventions,  but  they  make 
excellent  fathers-in-law.  Pardon  us,  reader,  if  we 
linger  lovingly  around  the  frog.  As  we  have  impaled 
him  on  our  hook,  we  have  taken  lessons  in  the  manly, 
heroic  virtues.  There  is  nothing  sublime  in  the  con 
duct  of  a  young,  dashing,  frivolous  fellow,  who  has 
never  seen  grief.  He  squirms  like  a  snake,  and 
when  you  stick  him  on  the  bearded  steel,  he  kicks 
like  a  devil  and  whines  like  a  cross  child  ;  but  take 
an  old  russet  chap,  who  has  lived  out  eighteen  of 
his  twenty  years,  and  braved  the  hardships  of  the 
wilderness,  and  incurred  the  responsibilities  of  the 
father  of  a  numerous  family:  when  you  seize  him, 
he  gives  a  desperate  struggle,  and  then  resigns  him 
self  to  inevitable  fate.  As  the  barbed  hook  passes 


128  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

through  him,  not  a  moan  of  complaint,  but  a  look 
of  heroic  endurance  and  stoical  resignation.  But 
enough  of  frogs ;  let  us  talk  about 

FISHING. 

Your  hook  is  nicely  baited,  the  boat  rocks  gently 
on  the  waters  beside  the  sheltered  shore,  and  you 
are  waiting  for  a  bite.  In  the  interval  of  expecta 
tion  you  descant  on  the  lovely  qualities  of  your  frog, 
and  wonder  that  sensible  fish  can  resist  an  induce 
ment  so  tempting.  Soon  you  feel  the  snap  of  the 
line  and  the  tremor  of  the  pole,  and  your  strength 
doubled  by  excitement ;  you  tug  till  a  row  of  black 
spears  shows  above  the  water.  Then  how  he  strug 
gles  !  careening  on  one  broad  side  and  then  on  the 
other,  till  at  last  you  bring  him  in  "out  of  the  wet." 
A  pretty  good  bass  !  About  five  pounds  !  Another 
interval  of  suspense.  By  and  by  you  feel  a  "  symp 
tom;" —  a  moment. of  eager  interest  —  it  is  a  bite! 
the  line  moves  slowly  against  the  wind  —  you  know 
-your  style,  and,  rising  to  your  feet,  give  him  line  — 
now  you  draw  —  gods !  he  is  hooked !  What  a 
moment  of  ecstacy  !  —  how  the  supple,  pliant  pole 
bends  under  the  pressure !  —  now  his  white  belly 
gleams  in  the  water  as  he  comes  slowly  up  —  the 
devil !  —  you  have  slackened  line  a  little  —  the  strug 
gling  fish  has  turned  his  head  from  you,  and 
whi-z-z-z-z-z  goes  your  line  around  the  bow  of  the 
boat  -1—  you  drop  the  pole  and,  seizing  the  line,  draw 
in,  hand  over  hand,  with  eager  speed  —  he  is  safely 
hooked,  and,  cavernous  mouth  wide  open,  he  comes 


LUTE    TAYLORS   CHIP    BASKET.  1 29 

in  out  of  the  drink.  You  leisurely  fix  your  bait, 
take  a  fresh  chew  of  tobacco,  ask  the  fellow  next 
you  if  he  saw  how  you  did  it,  and  toss  out  again. 

AN   INCIDENT. 

A  pleasing  incident  occurred  one  day  which  is 
worth  narrating.  As  the  bateau  was  drifting  lei 
surely  along,  we  discovered,  on  the  opposite  shore,  a 
wannegan  or  punt,  containing  two  ladies.  Shade  of 
Venus !  Here  was  a  schoolma'am !  White  dress  and 
blue  basque  on  Bear  Trap!  What  an  illustration 
of  the  aggressive  power  of  common  schools !  The 
school  house  and  the  Indian  camp  within  sight  of 
each  other !  I  never  before  so  realized  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  border  life  as  when  I  saw  the  advancing 
pickets  of  education,  with  all  its  attendant  amenities 
and  arts,  thus  challenging  the  retreating  sentinels  of 
savage  life.  The  position  is  one  to  be  proud  of. 
Boys,  pass  the  glasses.  Let  us  drink  to  the  health 
of  the  maid  on  Bear  Trap  —  to  the  peace  of  the 
schoolma'ams  who  basted  us  in  our  boyhood  —  to 
the  success  of  the  common  school  —  to  the  glory  of 
American  institutions  generally ! 

DEWDROPS  come  in  silence  and  in  the  night.  We 
sometimes  think  they  are  tears  which  the  watching 
angels  in  pity  shed  over  human  sorrow  or  sin. 

FUN  is  cousin  to  Common  Sense.  They  live 
pleasantly  together,  and  none  but  fools  try  to  divorce 
them. 

9 


130  LUTE    TAYLORS    CHIP    BASKET. 


A  HUMAN  RUIN. 

Any  ruin  is  sad ;  a  human  ruin  is  saddest  of  all. 
Whoever  or  whatever  struggles  for  life  and  sinks 
down  battling  bravely  until  engulfed  by  utter  ruin, 
moves  our  profoundest  sympathy.  The  plant, 
scorched  beyond  endurance  by  summer  heats  and 
slowly  yielding  up  its  feeble  life,  touches  our  sym 
pathy  as  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing.  The  foundered 
ship,  struggling  in  tumultuous  billows  or  breaking 
against  rocky  shores,  whose  staunch  timbers  and 
strong  planks  maintain  to  the  last  the  ineffectual 
struggle  with  wind  and  wave,  seems  to  us  to  be  ani 
mated  by  a  human  spirit,  and  its  destruction  calls 
out  a  sorrow  as  if  it  were  a  human  being,  with  love 
of  life  and  strength  of  will.  The  consumptive  per 
son,  in  whom  the  citadel  of  life  has  already  been 
taken  by  insidious  disease,  and  whose  strong  will 
matches  itself  against  death,  and  resolutely  scorns 
to  own  defeat,  though  fading  color  tells  of  fading 
strength,  calls  out  a  sympathy  painful  in  its  intensity 
—  a  sympathy  intensified  by  our  yearning  desire  to 
aid  the  sufferer  in  the  unequal  struggle,  and  our 
litter  inability  to  give  effectual  help. 

Such  wreck  of  health  —  such  ruin  of  womanly 
beauty  or  manly  strength — moves  us  to  grief  and 
saddens  us  with  tears ;  but  deeper,  darker,  more  pro 
foundly  miserable  and  utterly  desolate  is  the  specta 
cle  of  a  strong  man  yielding  to  the  mastery  of  drink 
— the  gradual  loss  of  self-respect,  the  decay  of  the 


LUTE    TAYLORS    CHIP    BASKET.  131 

moral  sentiments,  the  growing  paralysis  of  the  will ; 
until  at  last,  utterly  indifferent  or  defiantly  reckless, 
he  staggers  through  the  dark  door  of  death,  with  dis 
grace  behind  him  and  retribution  before. 

Not  with  one  wild  leap  does  any  man  go  down 
this  fearful  abyss  of  sin  and  shame.  The  end  is 
reached  only  after  innumerable  resolutions  have 
been  made  and  broken.  It  is  a  retreat  in  which 
the  victim  makes  many  a  brave  effort  to  withstand 
the  demon  who  is  pushing  him  on,  and  when  at  last 
disarmed  of  noble  purpose,  without  the  will  to  resist, 
or  the  ability  to  comprehend  his  disgrace,  he  sinks 
into  utter  and  irremediable  sottishness,  and  drifts 
almost  unconsciously  to  his  doom,  it  is  the  saddest 
sight  in  the  whole  universe  of  God. 


A  POEM. 

[Extract  from  a  poem  read  at  a  festival  of  the  Franklin  Club,  River 
Falls,  Wisconsin,  in  1858.] 

The  soul  that  lives  must  daily  grow ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  its  thoughts  will  go 
Out  wandering,  intent  to  know. 

We  live  to  learn  —  we  live  to  glean 
Some  truth  from  every  shifting  scene, 
And  Winter's  snow,  and  Summer's  green, 

And  play  of  light,  and  song  of  birds, 
And  waving  grain,  and  feeding  herds, 
And  sweetest  melodies  of  words. 


132  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

And  girlhood's  laughter,  ringing  clear, 

And  sorrow's  sob  and  pity's  tear, 

And  dead  friends  —  cold  upon  the  bier,  — 

All  things  that  soul  or  sense  has  caught, 
With  meanings  rich  and  deep  are  fraught, 
And  furnish  food  for  constant  thought. 

We  open  books,  by  use  grown  dear, 
And  the  long  centuries  disappear, 
As  the  far  Past  seems  pressing  near. 

The  beauteous  queens  of  high  romance, 
Turn  on  us  their  impassioned  glance, 
And  leave  us  in  a  willing  trance. 

The  martyrs,  sages,  heroes  old, 

Whom  love  of  truth  or  fame  made  bold, 

Gleam  on  us  from  sepulchral  mold ; 

And  poets  of  the  bygone  days 
Seem  ever  rising  from  their  graves 
To  charm  us  with  melodious  lays. 
******** 
Then  give  us  truth  that  shuns  no  light, 
While  thought  and  toil  their  power  unite 
To  clothe  the  soul  with  conquering  might. 

Thus,  wisely  living,  day  by  day, 

Our  minds  shall  broaden,  and  our  fancies  may 

Have  wider  scope  and  freer  play. 

Take  hold  of  Nature's  perfect  plan, 
And  rightly  estimate  and  scan 
The  life-work  of  an  earnest  man. 

And,  rising  from  this  earthly  sod, 
Tread  the  bright  path  by  sages  trod, 
Whose  goal  is  only  found  in  God. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  1^33 

A  DISCURSIVE  EPISTLE. 

[Extracts  from  a  letter  to  Frank  Daggett.] 

INDIANAPOLIS,  IND.,  July  7,  1868. 
MY  DEAR  BOY  : 

How  does  your  robust  form  feel  generally,  with 
the  thermometer  indicating  98  degrees  in  the  shade  ? 
Are  you  playful  and  happy  as  usual,  or  does  the 
exuberance  of  life  which  generally  distils  from  your 
speech  and  pen  now  exude  at  every  pore,  and  leave 
you  as  uninteresting  as  common  mortals  ?  An  early 
answer  is  requested. 

But,  seriously,  the  weather  is  very  warm.  I  en 
joy  a  continual  bath  in  the  perspiration  of  my  own 
body,  the  only  annoyance  being  that  linen  must  be 
changed  each  twenty  minutes  in  order  to  present  a 
comely  appearance.  Now,  twenty  minutes  is  hardly 
long  enough  for  a  chambermaid  to  do  the  work  of  a 
room,  and  the  maid  who  has  charge  of  room  104, 
Bates  House,  in  this  goodly  prairie  city,  is  no  excep 
tion  to  the  rule.  I  have  interrupted  her  while  pursu 
ing  her  ordinary  avocations,  and,  when  reprimanded, 
have  boldly  told  her  that  a  dry  shirt  I  would  have 
in  spite  of  all  the  chambermaids  in  the  house.  If 
she  had  not  been  a  charitable  girl,  and  my  face  had 
not  been  a  displayed  advertisement  of  honest  inten 
tions,  I  fear  I  should  have  been  reported  at  the  office 
and  persuaded  to  leave  the  house  before  the  train 
left  which  I  am  going  on. 


134  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

But,  to  be  serious,  Frank,  how  do  thin  fellows  get 
along  this  weather?  You  and  I  have  generous 
frames  through  which  to  distribute  the  heat,  and  a 
broad  surface  from  which  to  pass  it  off — but  those 
thin,  hatchet-faced,  narrow-chested,  slim-bodied, 
light-legged  fellows,  why,  they  must  feel  like  a  coal 
in  a  blacksmith's  forge,  like  a  bit  of  burned  steak, 
or  a  muffin  overdone. 

How  did  you  spend  "The  Fourth,"  my  boy?  I 
was  in  Chicago,  and  made  up  my  mind  that  that 
city  is  more  patriotic  than  pious.  Never  on  a  Sun 
day  have  I  seen  it  so  completely  deserted  as  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  Fourth.  The  business  houses  were 
closed,  the  streets  were  empty  and  still,  the  people 
trying  to  keep  cool  indoors,  or  away  in  God's  green 
temples  —  the  shadowy  groves. 

But  in  the  evening  the  streets  were  thronged  with 
people  in  holiday  attire,  and  the  night  glowed  and 
shone  and  sparkled  with  all  manner  of  fireworks, 
from  the  great  lurid  fires  glowing  fearfully  against 
the  sky,  to  the  solitary  rocket,  which,  speeding  like 
a  bullet,  into  the  darkness  above,  falls  back  wasted 
—  like  a  human  soul  which,  having  plumed  its  wing 
to  mount  to  heaven  and  search  out  the  mysteries  of 
the  Infinite,  returns  weary,  baffled,  and  worn  from 
its  fruitless  toil.  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  go 
inside  the  heated  walls  of  the  theater,  and  so  I  wan 
dered  idly  about  the  city,  viewing  its  splendor  arfd 
its  squalor,  its  wealth  and  its  want  —  past  the  marble 
temples  of  trade  —  past  the  palatial  residences  of 
the  rich,  past  the  cozy,  comfortable  homes,  out  into 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  135 

the  suburbs  —  where  in  hot,  close,  crowded,  fester 
ing  tenement  houses,  women  and  little  children 
breathe  an  air  that  is  poison  and  live  a  life  that  is 
death  —  where  gaunt  poverty  and  grim  despair  form 
a  fellowship  of  misery,  and  from  their  loathsome 
union  is  born  crime,  with  its  glaring  visage  and  heart 
of  hell. 

Give  me  the  mountain  and  the  prairie,  the  river  and 
the  wood,  the  voice  of  passing  winds,  the  sight  of 
growing  things,  the  scent  of  flowers  and  the  song  of 
birds  —  give  me  God's  green  earth,  for  I  like  it  better 
than  the  places  man  has  built.  I  believe  a  life  which 
brings  one  into  daily  contact  with  the  substratum  of 
a  city  populace  tends  to  make  him  a  materialist  — 
learns  him  to  look  at  people  as  only  another  form  of 
animals,  who  live  their  brief  life,  perform  their  little 
labor,  and  pass  into  the  nothingness  from  which  they 
came.  Philosophy  and  religion  teach  that  a  single 
soul,  an  isolated  human  life,  is  priceless,  outweighing 
in  value  all  material  wealth ;  and  yet,  when  we  look 
at  the  ignorant,  unthinking,  vicious,  degraded  and 
damnable  mob  which  swells  the  census  of  the  cities, 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  the  Son  of  God 
died  for  such,  that  gems  of  value  are  hidden  in  such 
worthless  caskets,  or  that  a  future  better  than  the 
present  can  ever  dawn  upon  them.  Yet  it  will  not  do 
to  cast  away  faith  in  the  loving  paternity  of  God. 

"  How  would  it  make  the  weight  and  wonder  less 

If,  lifted  from  immortal  shoulders  down, 
The  world  were  cast  on  seas  of  emptiness, 

'Mid  realms  without  a  crown."  , 


136  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

I  am  a  serious  lad,  my  boy,  and,  riding  much  on 
the  cars  lately,  I  have  thought  how  much  the  trip 
on  a  train  is  like  the  journey  of  life.  The  incoming 
passengers,  who  burst  in  upon  us  at  the  way-stations, 
are  the  births  which  keep  full  the  stream  of  life; 
while  those  who  depart  are  quickly  lost  to  sight  and 
thought,  as  we  shall  be  when  we  step  off  into  the 
darkness  which  envelops  all  the  world.  The  engine 
represents  the  human  passions,  which  are  the  motive 
power  of  life ;  the  engineer  is  law,  which  guides  and 
controls ;  the  brakemen  are  the  magistrates  and  offi 
cers  who  watch  over  and  protect  our  persons  and 
property,  and  the  conductor  is  the  parson,  who  di 
rects  us  on  the  journey  and  acquaints  us  with  our 
destination.  To  finish  the  similitude,  many  go  wrong 
in  life,  and  many  go  wrong  on  the  train. 

With  almost  unimagined  speed  the  world  rolls 
along  its  measured  track  among  the  stars.  Soon 
our  station  will  be  reached.  We  shall  step  off  into 
eternal  silence,  and  invisible  Charon  will  ferry  us 
over  the  Stygian  wave.  There  is  no  baggage-master 
on  that  craft,  my  boy.  Our  checks  must  be  surren 
dered  before  our  spirit  feet  shall  tread  its  ghostly 
deck,  and  so  do  not  encumber  yourself  on  the  jour 
ney  with  things  that  must  be  left  behind  at  its  close. 
Thus,  like  many  another,  covering  my  own  deficien 
cies  with  a  word  of  admonition  to  a  friend,  I  am 

Yours  fraternally. 

WILL  and  WORK  are  higher  trumps  than  genius 
and  luck,  in  the  game  of  life. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  137 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  ORATION. 

[The  following  short  extracts  are  from  a  Fourth  of  July 
oration  delivered  at  Winona,  Minnesota,  in  1872.] 

*  *     *     It  is  a  matter  for  congratulation  that 
our  fathers  chose  this  particular  season  of  the  year 
for  the  enunciation   of  their   Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence.     Longest   days,  midway   between  seed 
time  and  harvest.     On  each  side  the  months  slope 
down.     All  the  luxuriance,  the  superb  and  sensuous 
beauty  of  nature  greets  us  now,  and  contributes  to 
our  rejoicing. 

*  *     *     We  may  as  well  understand  the  fact 
that  the  old-fashioned  Fourth  of  July  has  passed 
away,  never  to  return  again.     It  belongs  to  history. 
It  is  as  much  a  part  of  the  past  as  the  battle  of 
Brandywine,  or  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne.     Twelve 
years  ago  there  was  an  awe  in  the  sight  of  a  cannon, 
a  glory  in  the  waving  of  a  flag  or  the  beating  of  a 
drum,  and  a  novelty  in  the  appearance  of  a  regiment 
in  arms.     There  was  a  charm  of  remoteness  about 
these  things.     They  moved  before  us  as  the  actors 
move  in  a  play.    Since  then  they  have  become  sadly 
but  proudly  familiar.     The  gaudy  show  has  been 
made  a  stern  reality.     The  cannon  have  thundered 
the  menace  of  death ;  the  drums  have  beat  the  sol 
emn  death-march ;  the  gay  banners  have  been  torn 
by  hissing  balls,  and  the  brave  regiments  have  swept 
in  shattered  columns  over  fields  that  were  lost.    We 


138  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

cannot  now  invest  the  Fourth  of  July  with  its  ancient 
reverence.  We  have  handled  the  sacred  things  until 
they  have  become  common  and  familiar.  The  heroes 
of  the  Revolution  do  not  loom  so  grandly  before  our 
mental  vision,  for  we  find  their  living  peers  and  equals 
wherever  we  turn. 

As  the  advent  of  the  Christian  dispensation  broad 
ened  the  old,  local,  Jewish  Sabbath  into  a  universal 
day  of  worship,  recreation  and  rest,  so  has  the  logic 
of  events  broadened  this  Fourth  of  July,  which  at 
first  commemorated  only  the  successful  revolt  of  a 
few  colonies,  into  a  festal  day  of  freedom,  and  made 
the  very  words  a  menace  to  oppression  and  an  inspi 
ration  and  hope  to  the  oppressed. 

The  Fourth  of  July  is  the  Nation's  birthday,  and 
it  has  probably  occurred  to  all  of  you  that  the  im 
portance  of  a  birthday  is  greatly  in  proportion  to 
the  age  of  the  individual.  It  is  a  great  event  when 
the  babe  has  completed  its  first  twelve  months  of 
existence.  The  youth  who  has  not  attained  his 
majority,  thinks  the  years  creep  along  with  snail-like 
pace,  and  looks  forward  to  his  birthdays  with  never- 
failing  interest ,  but  to  the  man  immersed  in  business 
they  pass  by  almost  unheeded ;  while  the  dimmed 
vision  of  the  aged  hardly  discovers  them,  as  the 
crowded,  shortened  years  flit  by. 

What  the  years  are  to  the  man  the  centuries  are 
to  the  world,  and  we  have  not  yet  passed  the  first 
century  mile-stone  on  the  journey  of  national  life. 
It  is  only  by  comparison  that  we  can  appreciate  how 
young,  as  a  nation,  we  are.  Away  to  the  north,  on 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  139 

the  banks  of  Lake  St.  Croix,  lives  a  man*  who  is 
older  than  the  Fourth  of  July.  His  step  is  still 
reasonably  firm;  the  light  from  his  eye  still  gleams 
out  from  beneath  the  thin  lashes  which  shade  it; 
his  memory  is  still  tenacious ;  his  enjoyment  of  the 
society  of  friends  is  fresh  and  keen;  yet  he  is  ten 
years  older  than  the  Fourth  of  July  — was  born  ten 
years  before  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was 
signed  — ten  years  before  "The  Fourth"  was  taken 
out  from  among  other  days,  glorified,  and  made  for 
ever  memorable.  This  man  voted  for  Washington 
for  the  Presidency,  and,  holding  him  by  the  hand, 
looking  into  his  wrinkled  face,  listening  to  his  voice, 
you  feel  how  young  this  country  is.  Four  generations 
like  him  would  reach  back  and  clasp  hands  with 
that  first  emigrant  to  the  western  world  —  Christo 
pher  Columbus. 

I  sometimes  think  we  do  not  give  sufficient  honor 
to  Columbus.  It  is  true  that  he  was  spared  many 
things  which  fall  to  the  lot  of  later  emigrants.  He 
had  to  "  declare  his  intention  "  to  the  natives,  but 
he  did  not  take  out  his  naturalization  papers;  was 
not  implored  to  go  to  caucuses,  or  join  a  campaign 
club;  he  never  ran  for  office  and  was  beat,  nor 
hurrahed  over  favorable  election  returns,  nor  lost 
his  money  on  an  unsuccessful  candidate,  nor  was  on 
the  finance  committee  of  a  Fourth  of  July  celebra 
tion.  But  though  spared  all  this,  his  honors  do  not 
match  his  merit. 

Looking  back  at  'him  through  the  misty  years,  he 

*  David  Stiles,  who  died  in  1873,  at  the  age  of  107. 


140  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

seems  to  us  more  like  one  of  the  demigods  of  myth 
ology  than  like  an  actual  living  man  —  a  hero  of 
history.     The  world  has  never  witnessed  a  sublimer 
spectacle,  a  grander  pilgrimage,  than  that   of  this 
wonderful    man,    this   princely    vagrant   and    royal 
beggar,  burdened  with  ideas  too  large  for  the  world's 
acceptance,  wandering  from  court  to  court  with  his 
visionary,   ridiculous    and    absurd    ideas   of  a  new 
world,  and  begging  for  the  means  to  enable  him  to 
find  it,   until  at  last  a  foolish  queen  gave  him  the 
necessary  aid,  and,  with  a  fearful  and  superstitious 
crew,  he  started  on  the  long  voyage  across  the  va 
cant  ocean.     The  vacant  ocean !     Just  think  of  it ! 
Now  it  is  white  with  the  sails  of  every  craft,  from 
the  shapely  yacht  to  the  stately  ship,  while  the  great 
steamers,  with  clouds  of  smoke  trailing  like  black 
pennons  in  their  rear,  shoot  from  the  shore  of  one 
continent  to  the  shore   of  another,  as  a  weaver's 
shuttle  flies  across  his  loom.     But  then  all  was  va 
cant  ;  the  sun  rode  out  of  the  wide  waste  of  waters, 
swung  over  the  broad  arch  of  heaven,  and  dipped 
again  in  the  boundless  blue,  and  looked  upon  no 
living  human  thing.     The  storms  stirred  the  great 
ocean  into   thunderous   tumult,  but  no  human   ear 
listened  to  the  grand  diapason  of  the  sea;  no  eye 
saw  its  climbing  billows  and  yawning  depths;    no 
heart  shuddered  at  its  threatening  peril.     The  sea- 
birds  skimmed  its  surface,  the  fishes  sported  in  its 
waters,  the   great  tides  rose   and  fell,  the   sunlight 
slept  upon  its  broad  expanse;  but  all  was  vacant, 
unused  and  unknown. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  141 

So,  too,  this  great  continent  was  a  wilderness, 
ripening  for  future  use,  where  human  life  was  savage, 
and  all  which  we  deem  desirable  was  unknown. 

*  *  *  But  let  the  procession  of  years  pass  by  ' 
until  you  come  down  within  the  memory  of  living 
men,  and  even  this  vast  west  was  a  solitude,  unpeo 
pled,  save  by  wild  beasts  and  men  scarcely  less  wild 
than  they.  The  rivers  flowed  unvexed  by  the  fret 
ting  wheels  of  commerce.  On  the  broad  prairies 
the  flowers  bloomed  and  died,  with  none  to  note 
their  beauty ;  and  the  luxuriant  grasses  ripened  in 
summer  airs,  rotted  and  enriched  a"  soil  on  which 
no  harvest  waved.  The  forest  trees,  untouched  by 
deadly  ax,  grew  old  and  died,  and  their  successors 
lifted  their  mighty  trunks  in  air,  like  towering  col 
umns  of  great  cathedrals,  and  along  their  high, 
leaf-woven  domes  the  soft  winds  rippled,  in  their 
verdurous  arches  the  birds  sang,  and  from  their 
mossy  floors  flowers  sent  up  their  praise  in  perpet 
ual  fragrance  and  perfume. 

Now,  how  changed  !  Man  has  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  mighty  forces  of  nature  and  subjugated  them  to 
his  will.  Seeming  impossibilities  have  been  realized, 
and  the  most  startling  wonders  are  the  every-day 
facts  of  our  lives.  Harvests  ripen  in  the  fields; 
villages  cluster  in  the  valleys ;  cities  sit  queen-like 
beside  the  lakes  and  rivers ;  mines  give  up  their 
hoarded  wealth ;  spindles  turn,  and  shuttles  leap, 
and  hammers  thunder  in  mills  and  manufactories; 
the  steamers  come  and  go  ;  the  rushing  trains  sweep 
across  broad  States,  making  far-sundered  people 


142  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

near  and  familiar ;  the  lightning  leaps  responsive  to 
our  touch,  and  becomes  a  swift,  invisible  messenger, 
conveying  our  words  with  the  rapidity  of  thought 
itself;  while,  better  than  all,  school-houses  dot  all 
the  land,  and,  from  every  hillside  and  in  every 
valley,  church  spires  point  to  heaven.  Distance  is 
annihilated,  time  is  stayed,  opportunities  are  ^  en 
larged.  During  the  past  year  mail  service  has  been 
put  by  this  government  on  8,000  miles  of  newly 
constructed  railway,  and  nearly  12,000  miles  have 
been  built. 

But,  great  as  have  been  the  triumphs  of  labor  and 
the  growth  of  material  interests,  greater  still  have 
been  the  triumph  of  moral  forces  and  the  growth  of 
ideas.  The  ideas  of  the  fathers  of  the  Republic 
have  become  living  facts ;  their  theories  have  crys 
tallized  into  laws.  Freedom  no  longer  sits  in  sorrow, 
weeping  over  the  atrocities  committed  in  her  name, 
but,  throned  in  regal  state,  wielding  the  sceptre  of 
law  and  armed  with  the  word  of  power,  her  will  is 
imperative  and  her  dictum  obeyed. 

Everywhere  progress  has  been  made.  Thought 
has  been  quickened,  aspirations  elevated,  philosophy 
broadened,  theology  liberalized,  and  life  enlarged. 
We  have  to-day  all  the  conditions  of  free  and  pros 
perous  national  life. 

The  question  of  moment  to  us  is,  how  shall  we 
preserve  these  conditions  for  ourselves,  and  transmit 
them  to  those  who  come  after  us  ?  In  schools  is  our 
safety,  is  the  almost  universal  response.  I  know  the 
great  value  of  schools ;  I  would  multiply  their  num- 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  143 

ber,  improve  their  character,  and  increase  their 
efficacy.  Politically  speaking,  there  is  virtue  in  a 
spelling-book,  and  the  multiplication  table  is  a  means 
of  grace.  Yet,  we  must  remember,  that  educated 
villainy  is  more  dangerous  than  honest  ignorance. 
The  men  who  plotted  the  last  great  treason  against 
the  country  were  men  of  learning,  polished  in  the 
arts  which  schools  impart,  and  armed  with  the 
strength  which  they  give.  Many  of  them  had  been 
wards  of  the  nation,  trained  in  her  schools,  and 
honored  in  her  service,  yet  they  basely  stung  the 
hand  that  had  blessed  them,  and  stabbed  at  the  life 
of  their  benefactor. 

More  men  fail  from  want  of  character  than  from 
want  of  intellect.  It  is  the  vices  outside  of  law 
which  are  sapping  our  national  life.  Personal  ex 
travagance  and  love  of  show  and  effect  drive  thou 
sands  delirious  with  care.  Licentiousness  blasts  the 
beauty  of  social  life,  and  blights  soul  and  body  with 
the  mildew  of  hell.  Intemperance  seizes  its  victims 
and  drags  them  from  comfort  and  respectability  to 
poverty  and  the  degradation  of  loaferdom,  and  then 
sends  them  groping  through  dark  delirium  to  the 
doors  of  death. 

We  fear  no  foreign  foe.  Our  danger  is  from  our 
selves.  It  lies  in  the  evils  I  have  pointed  out;  it 
lies  even  more  in  the  multiplicity  of  offices  and  the 
mad  ambition  to  hold  them ;  it  lies  in  that  unhal 
lowed  avarice  which  uses  official  position  for  the 
purpose  of  personal  gain ;  in  the  decay  of  that  nice 


144  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

sense  of  honor  which  fears  the  commission  of  wrong 
more  than  its  exposure. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  devoutly  believe  there 
is  sufficient  virtue  in  the  country  to  insure  a  pros 
perous  and  healthy  national  life.  I  see  a  future 
stretching  out  before  us  radiant  with  promise  and 
rich  in  every  possible  blessing.  I  believe  God  has 
a  great  work  for  this  nation  to  do;  that  here  the 
problem  of  government  by  the  people  is  to  be 
wrought  out,  and  that  in  his  providence  we  are  des 
tined  to  be  a  teacher  and  an  exemplar  to  the  nations 
of  the  earth. 

We,  Mr.  President,  may  not  live  to  see  the  full 
fruition  of  our  hopes,  but  those  who  come  after  us 
will  find  here  a  government  strong  in  the  affections 
of  the  people  — a  land  where  freedom  shall  reign, 
where  law  shall  issue  its  unbought  edicts,  where 
Justice  shall  hold  her  scales  with  steady  hand,  where 
Honor  shall  lift  her  unstained  brow;  a  land  which 
shall  be  the  realization  of  the  pat-riot's  hope  and  the 
Christian's  prayer;  a  land  where  the  flag  shall  be 
the  symbol  of  freedom,  as  the  cross  is  the  sign  of 
faith,  and  whose  benign  influences,  flowing  forth  to 
farthest  limits,  shall  make  the  Fourth  of  July  a 
sacramental  day  to  all  peoples  in  all  lands. 

EPITAPHS  are  like  circus  bills  —  there  is  more  in 
the  bill  than  is  ever  performed. 


LUTE    TAYLOR  S  CHIP    BASKET.  145 


CHAMBER  SCENE. 

Slowly  the  darkness  rolled  away, 
Folded  back  by  the  fingers  of  day, 
As  in  sweet  sleep  the  maiden  lay. 

The  rarest  beauty  was  her  dower  ; 
She  slept,  unconscious  of  its  power, 
As  fair  as  Eve  in  her  Eden  bower. 

The  fringed  lids  were  closed  above 

Dark  hazel  eyes,  brimful  of  love, 

Which  might  have  moved  Olympian  Jove. 

The  pillows  swelled  on  either  side 
Her  rosy  cheeks,  as  if  to  hide 
Her  beauty,  but  in  vain  they  tried. 

Her  warm  breath  with  her  tresses  played, 
Which,  all  unkempt,  around  her  strayed, 
While  one  fair  hand  uncovered  laid. 

The  snow-white  coverlet  rose  and  fell 
Responsive  to  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  mimicked  every  motion  well. 

Now  birds  their  morning  music  made  — 
'Mid  light  and  song  awoke  the  maid ; 
She  rose,  and  robed  herself,  and  prayed. 

Then  rising  reverent  from  her  knees, 
Unclasped  the  shutters,  and  the  breeze, 
That  sported  with  the  flowers  and  trees, 

Came  coyly  in  and  kissed  the  maid, 
And  lightly  with  those  tresses  played, 
That  hung  so  stilly  while  she  prayed. 
10 


146  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

Oh,  she  did  seem  surpassing  fair, 
And  every  breath  of  morning  air 
Was  hallowed  by  her  whispered  prayer. 

Thank  God  that  not  in  heaven  alone 
Are  pure  and  loving  spirits  known  ! 
E'en  here  they  bow  before  his  throne. 

And  many  a  wild  and  wayward  one, 
Who  else  in  erring  paths  had  run, 
By  such  pure  souls  to  heaven  is  won.  . 


ALL'S  RIGHT. 

(.Flagmen  were  stationed  at  every  road  crossing,  and  every  half-mile 
showing  the  American  flag  -a  signal  that  all  was  right.  -Extract  from 
an  account  of  Lincoln's  journey  to  Washington.} 

Look,  where  the  faithful  sentries  stand, 

Beside  the  level  bars, 
Each  bearing  in  his  trusty  hand 

Our  banner's  stripes  and  stars. 

The  nation's  chief  doth  ride  to-day, 

Her  hope  is  passing  there  ; 
And  love  encircles  all  the  way 

With  keen  and  watchful  care. 

As  eager  eyes  run  o'er  the  track, 

The  stars  gleam  on  the  sight  ; 
Each  signal  star  is  flashing  back 

The  welcome,  "  All  is  right  !" 

"All's  right!"  where  shine  those  sacred  stars 

Our  chieftain's  safety's  sure  ; 
And  when  his  hand  that  banner  bears, 

ALL'S  RIGHT  !  "  —  it  is  secure. 


LUTE   TAYLOR  S   CHIP   BASKET.  147 

.WHAT    I    KNOW    ABOUT    STAM 
MERING. 

[From  a  letter  to  the  Milwaukee  "  Sentinel."] 

The  success  of  Mr.  Greeley,in  writing  a  book  on 
what  he  knows  about  farming,  has  emboldened  me 
to  write  a  newspaper  article  on  what  I  know  about 
stammering.  I  am  confident  that  I  am  much  better 
informed  on  my  subject  than  Mr.  Greeley  upon  his, 
for  he  has  entirely  failed  in  his  efforts  to  raise  dried 
apples  from  the  seed,  while  I  have  never  failed,  when 
called  upon,  to  stammer  to  the  satisfaction  of  private 
friends  or  public  assemblies.  Sometimes  it  has  re 
quired  extra  exertion  for  me  to  fill  the  measure  of 
expectation,  and  give  as  great  an  amount  of  English, 
disjointed  in  a  different  manner  from  that  in  which 
Webster  or  Worcester  disjoints  it,  as  was  expected 
of  me  in  a  given  time,  yet  I  have  never  failed  to 
meet  a  reasonable  demand. 

[N.  B. —  I  will  qualify  that  statement  by  admit 
ting  that,  sometimes,  at  political  meetings,  when  the 
Democrats  called  me  out  in  preference  to  other 
Republicans,  because  they  thought  I  would  say  less 
against  them  than  anyone  else,  I  have  surprised 
them  by  dropping  the  customary  repetition  of  my 
pronunciation,  and  made  all  the  counts  against  them 
possible  in  the  time  given  me.] 

Stammering  is  an  art  which  but  comparatively 
few  people  possess.  I  am  the  more  surprised  at 


148  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

this,  because  it  can  be  acquired  without  interfering 
with  any  regular  business,  and,  usually,  practice  will 
make  one  perfect.  I  have  known  young  boys  who 
were  very  strong  stammerers  indeed,  and  young  men, 
who  have  been  with  me,  by  strict  attention  and  using 
all  their  spare  time,  have  made  very  creditable  pro 
gress,  and  in  a  few  weeks  compelled  me  to  check 
them,  lest  they  should  become  my  equals  or  supe 
riors  in  the  art. 

Its  advantages  may  not  be  apparent  at  first,  but 
they  will  be  admitted  when  attention  is  directed  to 
them. 

First. —  It  gives  one  prominence,  singularity,  no 
toriety,  or  whatever  name  you  choose  to  call  it  by, 
and  everyone  likes  to  be  prominent,  separate  and 
distinct  from  his  fellows.  Who  does  not  remember 
some  stupid  play-fellow  of  his  boyhood  who  stam 
mered,  and  who  is  remembered  for  that  fact,  and 
that  alone  ?  But  for  this  he  would  have  been  rubbed 
out  of  your  memory,  as  a  sum  is  rubbed  off  from 
the  blackboard ;  but  now  he  sticks,  as  the  gashes  in 
that  board,  cut  by  stony  seams  in  the  chalk,  stick. 
An  unregenerate  Democratic  editor,  heated  by  par 
tisan 'prejudice,  once  said  that  stuttering  gave  me 
all  the  little  notoriety  and  small  consequent  influence 
which  I  possessed.  I  reflected  upon  the  remark,  and 
was  suprised  to  see  how  truthful  it  was,  considering 
the  unreliable  source  from  which  it  came. 

Second. —  Stammering  excuses  people  from  many 
things.  When  I  was  a  schoolboy,  and  became  hope 
lessly  lost  in  the  conjugation  of  the  Greek  verb 


LUTE   TAYLORS   CHIP    BASKET.  149 

tupto)  a  severe  contraction  of  the  face,  a  judicious 
movement  of  the  under  jaw,  and  a  sort  of  appealing 
look  in  the  eyes,  as  if  I  knew  but  could  not  tell, 
would  cause  even  the  stern  old  professor  to  bend 
on  me  a  look  of  sympathy  and  regret,  and  nod  to 
the  next  to  finish  my  exercise,  so  that,  without  know 
ing  anything,  especially  about  my  text-books,  I  was 
always  marked  high  on  examination  days.  This 
was  a  great  advantage  to  me,  and  gave  me  that  lei 
sure  for  outdoor  exercise  which  young  students  so 
much  need.  In  the  autumn  it  also  enabled  me  to 
make  great  progress  in  the  study  of  pomology  in 
the  many  orchards  in  the  country  adjacent,  and 
fellow-students  became  fond  of  me,  and  loved  to 
frequent  my  room.  It  is  a  noble  thing  to  have  one's 
fellows  fond  of  him. 

In  the  spring  of  1853  I  was  attending  school  in 
North  Bridgewater,  Mass.  Returning  home  from 
Abington  on  foot  one  afternoon,  I  met  a  man,  who 
stopped  me  to  inquire  the  way  to  the  town  from 
which  I  had  just  come.  The  fellow  stammered  fear 
fully.  I  began  to  laugh  at  first,  then,  divining  his 
wish,  started  to  give  him  the  desired  information, 
and  began  to  stammer  myself. 

"  D — n  you,  do-nt  you  m-m-moc-mock  me." 

"  I  ai-n't  m-moc-mo-mocking  you." 

The  oath  was  repeated,  and  his  brawny  fist  was 
shook  so  close  to  my  eyes  that  I  could  not  see  be 
yond  it  very  well,  and  his  face  fairly  flamed  with 
rage.  He  was  a  horny-handed  delegate,  a  good  deal 
larger  than  I  was,  and  I  resorted  to  diplomacy  instead 


150  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

of  war.  I  finally  convinced  him  of  my  integrity, 
and  we  sat  down  by  the  roadside  and  had  as  com 
fortable  a  social  time  as  Artemus  Ward's  mother 
and  Betsey  Jane's  mother  used  to  have  boiling  soap 
together. 

In  the  summer  of  1857  I  was  publishing  the  "Jour 
nal  "  at  River  Falls  in  this  State,  and  then,  and  for 
some  years  after,  there  was  in  that  town  a  delegation 
of  as  active  and  reliable  stammerers  as  I  have  ever 
known.  There  were  five  of  us.  First,  there  was 
Wm.  J.  McMasters,  then  foreman  of  the  "  Journal," 
now  one  of  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  the  Lake 
City  (Minn.)  "Leader,"  and  then,  as  now,  one  of 
the  purest,  kindliest  and  best  men  whom  I  have  ever 
known.  Mac  did  not  seem  to  like  to  stammer. 
There  was  an  apologetic  air  about  his  performance, 
as  if  asking  pardon  for  annoying  his  hearers.  Mac 
was  the  best  foreman  I  ever  had,  because  it  was 
known  that  the  editor  stammered ;  and  whenever  I 
was  away,  and  Mac  was  in  charge,  he  could  fill  the 
whole  bill.  Then  there  was  Mr.  D.  H.  Levings, 
now  resident  there.  I  have  known  him  from  boy 
hood,  and  have  no  hesitation  in  vouching  for  him  as 
a  "  star  "  stammerer.  In  conversation  he  works 
everything  about  his  face  but  his  voice,  and  does 
everything  but  talk.  He  has  a  wonderful  facility 
of  distorting  his  features  while  wrestling  with  words, 
and  is  a  perfect  success  as  what  the  theatre  people 
call  a  "muggist."  He  looks  mad  when  stammering, 
but  he  is  not.  It  is  his  way.  Mr.  Henry  K.  White 
was  also  a  very  competent  and  steady  stammerer. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  151 

He  put  less  emotion  into  the  business  than  the 
others,  but  he  was  more  even  and  reliable,  and 
could  always  be  depended  on  to  work  very  hard 
in  order  to  say  a  very  little. 

Many  amusing  incidents  occurred  among  us,  but 
I  will  relate  but  one. 

In  1859  Mr.  Levings  was  director  of  the  school 
district,  and  I  was  clerk.  One  day  in  the  early 
autumn,  when  I  was  particularly  busy  in  my  office, 
a  young  man  named  George  W.  Witherell  came  to 
me  and  wished  to  engage  to  teach  the  school  during 
the  coming  winter.  I  did  not  like  his  appearance, 
and  had  no  idea  of  hiring  him,  and  so  told  him  he 
had  better  see  the  director.  He  asked  me  to  accom 
pany  him,  but  I  excused  myself  on  account  of  my 
urgent  business.  He  persisted  in  his  request,  until 
I  was  fairly  obliged  to  comply,  and,  in  no  very  good 
humor,  I  started  with  him  for  Mr.  Levings'  house, 
about  one-third  of  a  mile  distant.  I  had  been  show 
ing  him  some  of  my  best  specimens  of  stammering, 
and,  when  near  the  house,  I  remarked  that  he  might 
have  observed  that  I  had  a  hesitation  in  my  speech. 
He  said  he  had  observed  it.  I  told  him  I  was 
afflicted  that  way,  but  Mr.  Levings  was  a  very  rapid 
talker,  and  between  us  we  averaged  good  time.  We 
found  him  painting  his  house;  he  came  down  the 
ladder,  and  I  introduced  him,  making  fearful  work 
of  the  job. 

"Mr.  Le-Le-Levings,  1-let  me  ac-ac-ac  —  let  me 
ac-acquaint  you  with  Mr.  W-Wi-With  —  with  Mr. 
With-With-Witherell." 


152  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

Levings  looked  at  him,  then  looked  at  me,  and 
began : 

"  Wh-wh-wh-m&z/  na-a-a-ame  did  you  sa-a-a-ay?" 

He  wrestled  fearfully  with  that  first  word  "what." 
The  contortions  of  his  face  were  frightful  to  With- 
erell  and  amusing  to  me.  Mr.  Witherell  did  not  get 
the  school.  I  think  he  was  resigned ;  I  don't  think 
he  wanted  it  very  much  after  we  had  stopped  talk 
ing  to  him ;  but  I  had  my  revenge  on  him  for  taking 
me  from  my  work. 

For  myself,  within  the  year  past,  the  habit  of 
stammering  has  nearly  forsaken  me.  I  have  taken 
no  special  pains  to  secure  this  result,  and  hardly 
know  whether  to  rejoice  at  it  or  not.  I  shall  try  to 
retain  enough  of  the  habit  to  "  sample  "  it  when  de 
sired,  though  I  should  not  indulge  in  its  habitual 
use. 

The  years  work  their  slow  but  certain  changes, 
and  man  ripens  for  the  grave  as  leaves  and  fruit  do 
for  their  fall.  The  weakest  leaves  fall  first,  and  it 
may  be  that  this  habit,  the  least  essential  of  what  is 
personal  to  myself,  is  thus  the  first  to  pass  away  — 
the  first  indication  of  that  coming  change,  which,  in 
God's  own  time,  will  bear  us  all  over  to  that  other 
life  where  no  stammering  tongues  are  found,  but 
where  language  is  music,  life  is  thought,  and  law  is 
love. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  153 


THE  NEWSPAPER. 

[Extracts  from  an  address  delivered  before  the  Convention 
of  the  Minnesota  Editors  and  Publishers'  Association,  held 
at  St.  Paul,  June  4,  1870.] 

There  are  some  things  from  which  the  freshness 
never  fades  away  —  out  of  which  the  wonder  never 
dies.  Day  by  day  we  may  stand  beside  a  telegraph 
operator,  but  the  mystery  of  his  performance  never 
becomes  clear,  and  the  sensation  of  surprise  is  always 
fresh  and  keen. 

Just  so  the  newspaper  is  a  constantly  recurring 
miracle  whose  wonder  never  wears  away.  Whether 
lying  carefully  folded  in  the  office,  or  invitingly  open 
upon  the  table ;  whether  wrapping  cheese  and  cod 
fish,  or  thrown  discarded  into  the  street  to  scare 
horses  and  be  trampled  on,  it  is  always  invested 
with  a  strange  kind  of  awe. 

The  newspaper!  Look  at  it.  It  seems  empty 
and  vacant,  perhaps.  "  Nothing  in  the  paper,"  you 
say;  yet  read,  and  you  will  find  it  an  open  letter 
from  very  many  people  whom  you  have  never  known. 

One  offers  you  this  commodity,  and  another  that ; 
one  happy  man  sends  you  notice  of  his  wedding, 
another  sorrowfully  informs  you  of  a  death.  Look 
over  its  contents  closely  —  its  news  items,  its  list  of 
accidents,  of  fires,  of  crimes  —  see  how  sudden 
wealth  has  surprised  some,  and  sudden  poverty  sad 
dened  others.  Is  it  in  war  time?  —  look  at  the  list 
of  killed  and  wounded ;  see  who  has  been  promoted 


154  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

and  who  disgraced ;  take  into  your  mind  the  import 
of  the  consequence  of  all  these  things,  and  you  will 
find  that  you  hold  in  your  hand  "  the  ends  of  myriad 
invisible,  electric  conductors  along  which  tremble 
the  joys,  sorrows,  wrongs,  triumphs,  hopes  and  de 
spairs  of  as  many  men  and  women,"  all  as  sensitive 
to  pleasure  or  pain  as  yourself. 

Here  you  have  the  lore  of  the  scholar  and  the 
wisdom  of  the  sage.  Here  the  divine  preaches,  the 
poet  sings,  and  the  partisan  lies.  Here  the  states 
man  proclaims  his  principles  and  the  auctioneer 
offers  his  wares.  Here  the  Cardiff  giant  and  Minnie 
Warren  are  put  side  by  side,  and  one  is  as  long  as 
the  other.  Here  is  the  result  of  the  antiquarian's 
research,  and  through  the  very  next  column  throbs 
a  truthful  tale  of  present  love,  passion  and  romance. 
Here  the  Old  and  the  New  are  brought  into  con 
trast.  Here 

"  Tradition,  snowy-bearded,  leans 
On  Romance,  ever  young." 

This  is  but  a  feeble  portrayal  of  what  a  newspaper 
is ;  let  us  now  see  how  it  is  made. 

Come  with  me  to  the  office.  We  will  pass  that 
pile  of  paper.  Yet,  stop ;  pick  up  a  sheet  of  it.  We 
cannot  wait  to  explain  the  curious  process  of  its 
manufacture,  yet  that  clean  and  spotless  sheet  is  the 
purified  product  of  rags  and  filth.  The  fibre  which 
forms  its  texture  may  have  been  stripped  from  Egyp 
tian  mummies ;  it  may  have  come  from  city  streets, 
or  from  great  garrets  in  country  homes ;  it  may  have 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  155 

wrapped  the  luxurious  form  of  beauty,  or  been  the 
scanty  covering  of  want ;  but  whether  from  the  robes 
of  a  queen  or  the  rags  of  a  harlot,  it  gives  no  clue 
now  to  its  former  condition.  Like  a  sanctified  soul, 
it  is  ready  for  a  new  life. 

We  will  pass  the  editorial  room.  Its  occupants 
are  busy.  There  are  papers  from  far  and  near ;  let 
ters  from  widely  scattered  correspondents ;  telegraph 
dispatches,  intelligence  in  every  form ;  and  from  this 
mass  is  to  be  selected  what  is  of  most  interest  and 
importance,  to  make  a  paper  to-day.  Let  the  editors 
work. 

Come  into  the  composing  room.  We  have  the 
foreman's  permission — grudgingly  given.  Do  you 
hear  it?  "Click!  click!  click!"  What  is  that?  Why, 
that  is  the  music  Progress  marches  to.  Come  here, 
to  this  "case."  Look  at  that  multitude  of  little 
boxes,  filled  with  pieces  of  metal.  What  are  they  ? 
They  are  the  civilizers  —  they  are  THE  TYPES.  '*  * 

But  the  paper  is  being  made.  The  types,  one  by 
one,  have  been  picked  up  by  nimble  fingers,  and 
placed  in  proper  position.  Every  error  has  been 
corrected.  Every  punctuation  point  is  in  its  place. 
The  scattered  "  columns  "  are  massed  together ;  the 
"form,"  or  page,  is  securely  "locked  up,"  and  sent 
to  the  press  room. 

Let  us  go  there.  Here  is  where  the  wondrous 
transformation  is  wrought ;  here  matter  becomes  the 
exponent  of  mind.  The  "  forms"  are  properly  placed. 
The  great  press  slowly  moves;  its  arms  are  reaching 
for  their  strong  embrace. 


156  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

"  Stop  the  press !  " 

The  giant  rests  again.  There  is  an  error  of  state 
ment  to  be  corrected,  or  an  objectionable  article  to 
be  withdrawn.  The  types  are  taken  out  and  borne 
away—  corpses  of  a  dead  thought. 

Look  now,  again,  at  that  mass  of  type — dead  !  inert 
as  the  earth  you  tread  on.  But  see,  the  white  sheet 
has  fallen  upon  their  upturned  faces  —  the  touch  of 
the  Press  has  baptized  them  —  the  life  that  was  in 
them  has  passed  upon  paper,  and  the  new  creation 
is  pregnant  with  thought ;  a  thing  with  a  soul,  for  it 
can  move  the  souls  of  men.  That  sheet,  so  blank  be 
fore,  is  a  living  power  now.  A  change  has  passed 
over  it,  as  marvelous  as  if,  in  an  instant,  the  unwrit 
ten  face  of  the  boy  should  put  on  the  furrows  of  age, 
the  lines  of  care,  the  impress  of  manhood's  experi 
ence,  thought  and  toil. 

Thus  the  paper  is  born,  and  goes  out  into  the 
world.  No  messenger  can  overtake  it.  Its  utterance 
is  unalterable  now.  It  may  be  explained,  but  not 
erased.  The  printed  word  can  no  more  be  recalled 
than  the  departed  spirit  can  be  wooed  back  to  the 
cold  body  which  it  has  left. 

Here,  now,  we  have  it — the  newspaper !  Wonder 
ful  product  of  brain  and  toil !  One  would  think  it 
should  be  dearly  bought  and  highly  prized;  and  yet 
it  is  the  cheapest  thing  in  the  world.  Five  cents  will 
buy  it.  One  or  two  dollars  will  bring  it  to  your 
home  every  week  in  the  year.  And  yet,  strange  to 
say,  there  are  men  "too  poor  to  take  a  newspaper!" 
They  can  pay  five  cents  for  a  glass  of  beer,  or  fifteen 


LUTE    TAYLORS  CHIP   BASKET.  157 

cents  for  a  beverage  of  unknown  composition,  called 
a  "cocktail;"  they  can  pay  fifty  cents  for  a  circus 
ticket,  or  a  dollar  for  the  theatre,  yet  they  are  too 
poor  to  buy  a  newspaper !  —  a  newspaper,  which  is  a 
ticket  of  admission  to  that  great  Globe  Theatre, 
whose  dramas  are  written  by  God  himself,  "  whose 
scene-shifter  is  Time,  and  whose  curtains  are  rung 
down  by  Death  !  "  '  *  *  *  * 

IF  there  is  one  lesson  which  life  teaches  more 
plainly  than  any  other,  it  is  the  subordination  of 
individual  to  general  interest.  Humanity  is  large ; 
a  single  life,  even  the  largest,  is  small.  Engrossed 
with  our  daily  duties,  pressed  by  cares,  and  weighed 
down  by  exacting  obligations,  we  often  fancy  that 
our  life  and  labor  is  a  very  necessary  and  important 
thing.  Yet  a  little  reflection  will  show  us  that  the 
world  easily  adjusts  itself  to  its  losses  and  life  whirls 
on  the  rapid  eddies  and  rushes  in  strong  currents, 
and  the  express  wagon  jostling  against  the  hearse, 
the  black  plumes  threading  the  gay  and  busy  crowd, 
who  scarcely  note  their  passage,  or  think  that  soon 
the  same  offices  must  be  performed  for  them. 

The  sea  smiles  no  less  brightly  in  the  sunlight 
because  a  dark  and  ghastly  wreck  lies  hidden  be 
neath  its  shining  surface,  and  so  the  smile  of  life  is 
scarcely  saddened,  or  its  hues  robbed  of  their  bright 
ness,  because  of  the  awful  shadow  of  death,  which 
is  its  constant  attendant.  Humanity  is  large ;  indi 
vidual  life  is  small. 


158  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

A  BRILLIANT  WEDDING.  —  Such  is  the  caption  of 
the  article  before  us ;  and  then  there  is  a  description 
of  the  attire  and  appearance  of  the  bride,  as  minute 
in  regard  to  her  "points,"  as  an  article  in  Wilkes' 
Spirit,  about  the  "points"  of  a  favorite  of  the  turf; 
and  a  list  of  the  bridesmaids  is  given,  and  how  they 
were  dressed ;  and  the  trappings  of  the  altar,  and  the 
dignified  grace  of  the  clergyman,  the  brilliant  music, 
and  the  flowers,  and  the  delighted  and  distinguished 
guests,  and  the — -;  yes,  there  was  a  bridegroom;  and 
perhaps  he  loved  his  wife ;  and  possibly,  in  spite  of 
all  this  glare  and  glitter,  she  loves  him.  We  hope  so. 
We  read  of  such  weddings  often  —  or  rather,  we 
see  the  announcements  and  omit  the  reading.    And 
as  we  see  them  we  wonder  —  wonder  whether  love 
thrives  best  under  the   glare   of  such   publicity  — 
wonder  whether  the  splendor  of  the  ceremony  is 
matched  by  the  trustfulness  of  feeling  and  the  purity 
of  heart  which  alone  give  to  marriage  vows  their 
sacredness,  and  assure  a  future  of  ever  increasing 
love  and  devotedness.      We  wonder  whether   the 
country  maiden,  whose  love  grows  as  the  violet  does 
—  blushing  at  its  own  wealth,  and  shrinking  timidly 
from  exposure, —  whether  she  is  not  happier  in  the 
quiet  possession  of  her  great  treasure,  than  are  the 
darlings  of  fortune,  whose  loves  are  blazoned  to  the 
world.    Is  the  quiet  contentment  of  simple  life  really 
preferable  to  the  splendor  of  fashion  and  the  show  of 
wealth  ?    Is  the  rose  that  blossoms  in  natural  beauty 
sweeter  than  art's  painted  flowers?     We  sometimes 
think  so. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  159 


AGRICULTURE. 

[The  following  is  a  beautiful,  quaint  and  humorous  preface 
to  a  very  practical  address  delivered  at  an  Agricultural  Fair.] 

The  Fair  is  the  flowering  time  of  the  year.  It  is 
the  Festival  of  Labor.  Here  industry  exhibits  its 
reward,  Mechanism  displays  its  triumphs,  and  Art 
receives  her  crown.  All  the  long  year  the  wondrous 
alchemy  of  nature  has  been  patient  at  its  subtle 
work,  perfecting  the  results  which  we  witness  now. 
Winter  snows  have  fertilized  brown  tilth  and  grassy 
sod;  summer  suns  have  led  the  springing  stalk  to 
its  full  stature,  and  hardened  the  milky  berry  into 
golden  grain  and  ripened  ear ;  Spring  has  flung  out 
her  blossoms  with  prodigal  profusion,  and  Autumn, 
with  pride,  collects  the  ripened  fruit,  grown  ruddy 
in  Summer's  fiery  mould. 

This  is  the  season  of  fruition,  and  the  Fair  is  a 
large  and  generous  "  Harvest  Home,"  where  each, 
in  an  honorable  spirit  of  emulation,  competes  for 
supremacy  in  a  field  where  the  competition  itself  is 
of  far  greater  value  than  the  prize  bestowed.  Here 
is  the  romance  of  Labor.  The  best  of  the  field,  the 
first  of  the  flock,  the  most  skillful  work  of  the  hands, 
is  exhibited  here ;  and  giving  an  added  charm  to 
all,  is  the  social  intercourse,  so  general,  free  and  un 
restricted  upon  every  holiday  of  this  kind.  Other 
festivals  are  local  or  personal  in  their  significance, 
and  narrow  in  their  scope ;  this  is  broad  as  the  ne- 


160  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

cessities  of  man,  and  appeals  to  universal  human 
nature's  daily  needs. 

It  has  been  said,  in  praise  of  agriculture,  that  it 
was  "the  primal  occupation  of  man."  According  to 
sacred  authority,  this  is  true ;  but  according  to  the 
same  authority,  the  primal  man  was  not  a  signal  suc- 
cess  as  an  agriculturist.  No  man  ever  had  a  better 
start  in  the  world  than  Mr.  Adam.  He  inherited  an 
estate  of  unexampled  extent ;  it  was  furnished  with 
a  large  variety  and  number  of  stock ;  his  orchard 
was  filled  with  fruit  of  rare  excellence,  which  had 
not  cost  him  a  tithe  of  the  trouble  and  care  which 
our  fruit  growers  experience  in  bringing  their  favor 
ites  to  perfection ;  he  had  no  line  fences  to  keep  up ; 
no  highway  tax  to  work  out ;  no  shiftless  neighbors 
to  borrow  his  tools  and  neglect  to  return  them ;  no 
politics  to  distract  his  attention ;  no  corner  grocery 
or  club  house,  to  engage  his  time  and  capture  his 
cash :  no  speculators  to  contend  against  in  the  way 
of  prices;  and  no  Charles  Reade  to  beguile  him 
with  the  "  Terrible  Temptation  "  of  an  exciting  and 
worthless  romance, —  and  yet  he  was  not  happy. 
His  farm  was  overrun  with  weeds  and  thistles,  and 
he  finally  lost  his  homestead,  and  was  turned  out 
bankrupt,  to  preempt  on  the  barrens  —  like  a  "poor 
white"  on  an  exhausted  "clearing,"  in  the  pine 
woods  of  the  Carolinas. 

Notwithstanding  this  inauspicious  beginning,  agri 
culture  rallied  from  its  first  disgrace ;  the  pages  of 
history,  sacred  and  profane,  are  aglow  with  its  praise, 
and  poetry  has  ever  found  it  an  inspiring  theme. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  161 

Following  the  line  of  sacred  story,  we  find  that 
when  Capt.  Noah,  at  the  close  of  a  very  memorable 
cruise,  left  the  sea,  and  walked  forth  upon  the  puri 
fied  earth,  he  "  began  to  be  an  husbandman."  He 
seems  also  to  have  had  the  taste  of  a  horticulturist, 
for  he  "  planted  him  a  vineyard,"  and  went  into  the 
manufacture  of  wine;  and  here  we  grieve  to  say, 
that  like  many  other  men  who  have  since  been  in 
the  same  business,  he  partook  too  freely  of  his  own 
production. 

Close  following  after,  come  the  days  of  the  Patri 
archs  ;  and  the  history  of  the  world  gives  us  no  pic 
tures  more  stately  and  grand  than  those  of  these 
nomadic  chiefs,  whose  wealth  was  in  flocks  and 
herds,  and  whose  titles  to  power  were  their  own 
kingly  attributes;  nor  has  language  ever  told  a 
sweeter  story  than  that  of  royal-born  Rebekah  fill 
ing  her  pitcher  at  the  well,  and  hastening,  with 
gracious  hospitality,  to  press  its  coolness  to  the 
stranger's  lips. 

All  the  early  history  of  the  world  is  redolent  with 
the  flavor  of  the  fields.  But,  passing  over  many 
characters  which  stand  out  bold  and  prominent,  I 
can  merely  allude  to  Prince  Joseph,  an  ingenious 
youth  of  the  royal  family  of  Israel.  The  pet  child  of 
a  wealthy  father,  and  the  envy  of  less  favored  breth 
ren,  in  his  musings  in  the  fields  he  formed  a  charac 
ter  whose  robust  virtue  delivered  him  from  the  servi 
tude  of  Pleasure,  and  in  later  life  he  developed  a 
faculty  for  financiering  which  enabled  him  to  assist 
his  impoverished  relatives,  and  gave  him  a  lasting 
ii 


162  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

fame.  He  became  one  of  the  heaviest  corn  brokers 
on  record,  and  if  not  a  veritable  "  bull  "  in  the  mar 
ket,  he  used  a  remarkable  u  corner  "  greatly  to  his 
advantage,  and  like  many  men  in  later  days,  became 
immensely  wealthy  by  means  of  a  government 
contract. 

Farther  down  the  track  of  time,  we  find  the  touch 
ing  tale  of  the  Moabitish  damsel,  filial  Ruth.  We 
see  her,  with  modest  mien  and  downcast  eye,  glean 
ing  the  barley  stalks ;  and  mark  her  pleased  surprise 
at  the  kindness  which  finds  and  the  love  which  fol 
lows  her,  and  we  love  to  remember  that  this  poor, 
dutiful,  early  widowed  harvest  girl,  who  shyly  sat 
beside  the  reapers,  and  shared  their  frugal  fare,  be 
came  the  wife  of  princely  Boaz,  and  the  grandmother 
of  that  great  Hebrew  bard  and  king  whose  songs 
to-day  make  music  in  every  sanctuary,  and  melody 
in  every  Christian  heart. 

IN  a  great,  tumultuous  assembly,  when  the  one  man 
whom  all  are  expecting  approaches,  all  tumult  ceases, 
all  sounds  are  hushed.  So  in  the  still  night  watches, 
when  the  hum  of  traffic  and  the  din  of  toil  has 
ceased,  and  the  weird  and  wondrous  beauty  of  nature 
sleeps  in  silence,  seen  only  by  the  mild  moon  and  the 
sentinel  stars,  heaven  stoops  low  to  earth,  and  God 
visits  the  world.  Then  there  is  worship  in  the  very 
air.  The  stones  repeat  their  silent  sermons  —  the 
leafy  boughs  sway  in  unwritten  melodies,  and  the 
unvexed  waters  murmer  musically  to  the  shores. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  163 


A   PREFATORY  LETTER. 

MY  DEAR  JOE  i 

This  chip-basket  is,  or  it  should  be,  like  an  easy, 
gossiping  letter  to  a  friend.  Do  not  you  and  every 
one  else,  often  meet  with  pleasant  passages  which 
you  wish  to  read  to  some  one,  and  have  quaint  fan 
cies  flit  across  your  thought,  which  you  would  like 
to  imprison  in  words  and  write  them  to  a  friend  ? 
Well,  this  "Chip-Basket"  is  a  collection  of  such 
fancies  and  such  passages,  and  I,  in  thought,  will 
send  them  to  you,  for  your  friendliness  for  myself 
will  blunt  the  sharp  edge  of  any  criticism  which 
another  might  indulge  in.  And  if,  occasionally, 
some  thought  should  seem  to  demand  a  more  elabo 
rate  statement  than  a  "  chip  "  could  give  room  for,  I 
can  write  it  down  here,  and  be  as  garrulous  as  I 
please. 

And  as  I  write  now  —  the  waning  hours  of  the 
week  drawing  us  close  to  the  imaginary  line  which 
separates  secular  from  sacred  time  —  I  think  of 
another  line,  another  boundary,  which  is  not  imagin 
ary,  but  most  solemnly  real,  towards  which  we  are 
ever  drawing  near.  It  is  the  line  which  separates  not 
only  two  countries,  but  two  states  of  existence  from 
each  other,  and  from  beyond  which  comes  back  to 
us  no  friendly  greeting  from  those  who  have  "  gone 
before." 

You  know,  Joe,  that  the  traveler,  in  passing  from 
one  country  to  another,  is  often  met  at  the  boundary 


164  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

line  by  an  officer,  who  strictly  searches  all  his  effects, 
to  see  that  nothing  contraband,  or  forbidden,  is 
carried  into  the  country  to  which  he  goes.  How 
closely  are  guarded  the  boundaries  of  European 
kingdoms  and  empires ;  how  the  revenue  officers 
guard  the  long  line  which  separates  the  United 
States  from  the  Dominion  of  Canada,  to  see  that 
nothing  is  "smuggled"  over;  and  in  the  late  war, 
how  searching  the  scrutiny  and  how  constant  the 
care  that  nothing  "  contraband  "  should  pass  to  the 
hostile  lines.  The  smuggler,  the  spy,  and  even  the 
incautious  traveler,  are  often  loaded  with  treasures 
they  would  not  carry  if  they  knew  they  must  be  sur 
rendered.  Sometimes  they  pass  undetected ;  some 
times  the  law  enforces  its  penalty. 

But  that  other  boundary  line  to  which  I  have 
alluded,  is  guarded  with  a  vigilance  that  never  ceases 
—  with  a  vision  that  is  never  dim  —  an  intelligence 
that  never  errs  —  a  faithfulness  that  never  fails.  No 
mistakes  are  made;  no  wrongdoer  passes  unde 
tected.  That  sleepless  sentinel  is  the  Angel  of 
Death.  No  illusion  cheats  his  eye.  All  deceit  and 
subterfuge  and  hypocrisy  stand  revealed  before  him, 
and  the  man  is  simply  the  man  himself.  Virtue  and 
honor,  and  love,  and  truth,  and  gentle  charities,  and 
Christian  deeds,  they  are  passed  by  the  shadowy 
guard  with  an  approving  smile;  but  the  ill-gotten 
gains  of  an  unhallowed  life  are  indignantly  wrenched 
away,  and  their  possessor  held  for  impartial  trial  and 
inexorable  doom. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  165 


TOOTH    PULLING. 

[The  following  was  an  impromptu  speech  made  at  a  con 
vention  of  the  State  Dental  Association  of  Wisconsin,  held  in 
La  Crosse  in  1870:] 

M-MR.  P-PRESIDENT  AND  G-G-GENTLEMEN  : 

I  have  n-noticed  in  the  p-papers  that  the  "  tooth 
pullers  "  of  the  State  were  to  meet  in  council  here 
at  this  t-time ;  b-but  I  had  no  desire  for  an  intro 
duction  to  their  f-fraternity,  and  no  e-expectation  of 
being  p-present  at  any  of  your  s-sessions,  until, 
t-through  your  urgent  invitation,  M-mr.  President, 
and  your  reassuring  terms,  by  which  you  quieted 
my  nervous  a-apprehension,  I  was  induced  to  come 
in  and  hear  the  discussion  of  t-to-night.  My  1-love 
for  your  profession  is  not  "  greater  than  the  love  of 
w-woman,"  and  if  you,  gentlemen,  are  of  the  same 
cloth  as  the  d-dentist  I  first  had  an  i-introductien  to 
p-professionally,  I  should  hope  you  would  move  a 
speedy  and  early  adjournment,  and  depart  from  the 
city !  I  was  more  confiding  when  I  met  that  d-dent 
ist  than  I  think  I  am  now.  He  was  one  of  those 
f-fellows  who  s-seem  to  h-have  a  "  roving  commis 
sion  "  —  c-came  to  the  place  where  I  resided,  and 
t-took  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  me  from  the  start. 
He  was  a  brother  m-mason,  too,  and  secured  my 
young  affections.  He  w-wanted  to  look  at  my  m- 
mouth,  and,  in  a  moment  of  w-weakness,  I  1-let  him. 
Up  to  that  t-time  I  thought  my  m-mouth  was  all 


166  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

right  —  as  good  a  one  as  I  wanted.  But  he  found 
only  d-dire  disaster  there!  One  tooth  I  must  let 
him  pull,  and  at  once,  or  ir-irretrievable  ruin  would 
be  the  consequence.  I  h-hesitated  —  and  you  know 
what  becomes  of  those  who  hesitate.  He  seemed  a 
messenger  sent  just  at  that  time  to  save  my  health 
from  impending  r-ruin.  He  was,  of  course,  a  supe 
rior  d-dentist,  for  I  had  it  from  his  own  lips. 

And  then  came  out  the  strange  instruments,  more 
d-diverse  in  appearance  than  what  Peter  saw  let 
down  in  a  sheet  —  and  all  formed,  it  seemed,  for  the 
especial  purpose  of  saving  my  health  from  r-ruin. 
He  used  those  instruments.  I  had  a  consciousness 
at  the  time.  I  th-think  he  e-explored  the  nerve, 
and  whatever  else  was  in  that  tooth.  And  then  he 
brought  out  g-gold,  and  then  he  punched  it  into 
the  tooth  by  the  foot  and  by  the  yard,  until  I  felt  I 
had  a  bank  of  deposit  "on  which  I  could  draw  for 
almost  any  "rainy  day." 

With  bright  visions  I  went  to  bed  that  night,  but 
not  to  sleep.  There  was  something  worse  than  his 
instruments  gn-gnawing  at  that  tooth.  I  tried  differ 
ent  combinations  and  m-modifications  of  these,  but 
I  c-continued  unhappy.  In  the  morning  I  sought 
my  dental  friend,  but  he  was  not.  He  had  gone  on 
his  mission  to  bless  humanity  in  other  p-parts.  It 
were  well  thus. 

I  have  no  memorandum  detailing  exactly  what  I 
did  that  day ;  I  d-didn't  forget  that  tooth  !  In  the 
afternoon  I  anxiously  sought  the  services  of  a  sur 
geon  who  p-pulled  teeth,  and  urgently  requested  him 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  167 

to  remove  that  tooth  with  or  without  the  head.  I 
cannot  describe  his  operation.  I  know  h-he  took 
hold  of  it.  I  felt  him.  He  p-pulled,  and  I  p-pulled. 
As  a  man  of  truth,  I  would  say  it  didn't  hurt,  but 
the  astronomical  observations  I  m-made  at  the  time 
were  varied  and  extensive.  When  he  got  tired  of 
pulling,  I  put  up  my  hand  to  let  him  rest.  At  the 
third  t-trial  I  remember  there  was  a  decided  change 
in  the  sensation ;  t-there  was  a  deep-seated  convul 
sive  effort  produced  on  my  system  which  reminded 
me  of  m-many  I  could  not  recall,  and  the  tooth  came 
out !  But  I  have  st-stuttered  ever  since ! 


TO 

Fair  maid,  although  I  dare  not  hope 

That  thou  of  me  art  dreaming, 
Although  thine  eyes  may  not  with  love 

On  me  be  fondly  beaming ; 
Though  I  may  have  no  power  to  wake 

Thy  heart  with  wild  emotion, 
Nor  hear  thy  low  voice  breathe  to  me 

The  vows  of  deep  devotion  ; 

Yet  loyalty  to  highest  art 

Sees  beauty,  where'er  shining, 
And,  with  a  reverent  eye  and  heart, 

Adores  without  repining ; 
And  so,  fair  maid,  I  gaze  on  thee, 

And  deem  it  no  slight  blessing 
That  I  thy  winning  charms  may  see, 

Though  ne'er  dream  of  possessing- 


i68  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 


HORACE  GREELEY. 

To  say  that  Mr.  Greeley  had  faults,  is  but  to 
say  that  he  was  human.  But  whatever  they  were, 
his^  almost  tragic  death  is  the  sublimest  expiation 
which  a  noble  soul  could  make,  and  has  given  con 
vincing  proof,  if  any  were  needed,  of  the  purity  of 
the  motives  which  governed  his  life. 

Mr.  Greeley  is  equally  great  whether  viewed  as  a 
journalist  or  as  a  man.     He  lifted  journalism  to  a 
more  beneficent  position  than  it  had  ever  occupied 
before.     He  made  the  "  Tribune  "  not  only  a  pur 
veyor  of  news  and  advocate  of  a  party,  but  a  great 
educator  and  moral  force.     "  His  remarkable  power, 
when  traced  back  to  its  main  source,  will  be  found 
to  have  consisted  chiefly  in  that  vigorous  earnest 
ness   of  belief  which   held   him    to    the    strenuous 
advocacy  of  measures  which  he  thought  conducive 
to  the  public  welfare,  whether  they  were  temporarily 
popular  or  not.     Journalism  may  perhaps  gain  more 
success  as  a  mercantile  speculation  by  other  methods; 
but  it  can  be  respected  as  a  great  moral  and  political 
force  only  in  the  hands  of  men  who  have  the  talents, 
foresight  and  moral  earnestness  which  fit  them  to 
guide  public  opinion.     It  is  in  this  sense  that  Mr. 
Greeley  was  our  first   journalist,  and  nobody  can 
successfully  dispute  his  rank,  any  more  than  Mr. 
Bennett's  could  be  contested  in  the  kind  that  seeks 
to  float  on  the  current  instead  of  directing  its  course. 
The  one  did  meet  to  render  our  American  journals 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  169 

great  vehicles  of  news,  the  other  to  make  them  con 
trolling  organs  of  opinion."  - 

To  this  work  he  carried  all  the  intense  zeal  of  a 
propagandist.  He  was  resistless  in  his  advocacy  of 
principles,  although  sometimes  faulty  in  his  methods 
of  securing  their  fruits.  He  reached  conscience,  de 
stroyed  prejudice,  and  popularized  conviction  with 
equal  success.  "  His  rise  from  the  printing-office  to 
the  editorial  peerage,  where  he  sat  crowned  and 
glorious  in  well-won  laurels;  his  spotless  private 
worth ;  his  temperance,  simplicity,  and  candor ;  his 
Franklin  precepts  for  young  and  old;  his  love  for 
his  kindred  and  his  friends ;  his  war  against  slavery ; 
his  fight  for  exceptionless  education  and  equality; 
his  protest  against  legislative  and  municipal  cor 
ruption  ;  and  his  staunch  championship  of  the  rights 
of  labor;  —  these  are  his  titles  of  nobility,  self-se 
cured,  brighter,  and  more  enduring  than  if  conferred 
by  a  college  of  kings." 

Now,  the  man  himself  comes  into  view  —  the  real 
Horace  Greeley  —  "  with  his  great  active  brain  and 
tender  heart,  his  grand  hatred  of  wrong  and  charity 
for  the  wrong-doer,  his  tireless  benevolence,  and  his 
unceasing  labor  for  all  that  elevates  humanity."  His 
fame  is  immortal,  for  he  linked  his  labor  to  immortal 
things.  His  life  was  given  to  crush  the  wrong,  to 
defend  the  right,  to  educate  the  ignorant,  to  purify 
the  vicious,  to  aid  the  weak,  to  uplift  the  lowly,  to 
free  the  slave.  The  familiar  "  H.  G."  became  a  sign 
of  almost  cabalistic  meaning,  and  it  glowed  on  the 
pages  of  the  u  Tribune  "  an  impulse  and  an  inspira- 


170  LUTE    TAYLOR'S  CHIP   BASKET. 

tion  to  all  noble  struggling  toilers  for  the  right,  as  the 
cross  shone  on  the  banners  of  Constantine  to  cheer 
and  strengthen  the  defenders  of  the  church.  Pass 
ing  now  into  the  August  Presence,  none  will  doubt 
that  he  has  received  the  approving  welcome,  "  Inas 
much  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of 
these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

THAT  man  is  truly  thoughtful  and  humane  whose 
sympathies  are  not  confined  to  the  circle  of  his  own 
kindred,  friends  or  acquaintance,  but  who,  sitting 
securely  in  his  own  happy  home,  knows  that  wild 
hearts  are  throbbing  in  despair,  sorrowful  souls  are 
suffering  in  silence,  and  pinched,  wasting  lives  are 
weary  in  the  struggle  with  want,  in  the  great  world 
outside  his  door.  Through  the  full  harmonies  of 
his  peaceful  life  there  come  ever  to  his  ear  the  dis 
cords  of  sin  and  suffering  in  the  great  passion-tossed, 
tumultuous  world.  As  a  retired  sea  captain,  spending 
the  evening  of  life  in  some  quiet  inland  home,  hears, 
on  stormy  nights,  the  tumult  of  the  sea,  and  feels  a 
thrill  of  sympathy  for  the  toiling  ship  and  the  brave 
men  struggling  to  avert  disaster  and  death ;  so  the 
man  who  has  felt  the  bufferings  of  fortune,  or  knows 
by  observation  how  want  and  woe  are  the  unvary 
ing  attendants  of  many  who  throng  the  paths  of 
life,  feels  his  heart  go  out  in  warm  and  active  sym 
pathy  for  all  the  poor  and  unfortunate  among  his 
fellow  men. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  171 


THE  TIN-PAIL  BRIGADE. 

A  few  mornings  ago  we  were  in  Milwaukee,  and 
at  an  early  hour  walked  from  the  depot  to  the  New- 
hall  House.  Early  as  it  was,  we  had  hardly  ever 
before  seen  those  familiar  streets  so  thronged  with 
pedestrians.  We  met  the  "  tin-pail  brigade  "  on  their 
way  to  the  entrenchments  of  labor. 

These  streets,  which  a  few  hours  later  would  throb 
with  the  pulse  of  business  activity,  were  nearly  silent 
now,  except  where  the  hurrying  laborers  thronged 
the  sidewalks,  each  carrying  his  ration  for  the  day 
in  the  little  tin  pail.  An  hour  later  and  these  men 
would  be  invisible  —  hidden  in  shops  and  forges  and 
manufactories,  where  all  the  long  day  they  would 
toil,  many  of  them  for  barely  enough  to  supply  them 
selves  and  those  dependent  upon  them  with  the 
most  absolute  necessaries- of  life. 

We  thought  we  could  read  a  great  deal  of  the 
home  life  of  each  in  the  passing  glance  we  gave  as 
they  went  hurrying  by.  Here  was  one  whose  cloth 
ing  was  ragged  and  neglected,  and  on  his  face  a  hard, 
dissatisfied  expression.  It  was  easy  to  see  there 
was  no  hope  in  his  heart  —  that  he  went  to  his 
task  as  if  it  were  a  penalty  imposed  for  crime,  and 
that  no  pleasant  and  loving  home  life  cheered  him 
at  the  evening,  and  lifted  from  his  heart  the  clouds 
that  darkened  his  life.  Jt  is  a  terrible  thing  when 
the  home  of  the  poor  lacks  love,  the  only  agency 


i?2  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

which  can  lighten  its  burdens  and  make  it  hopeful 
and  happy. 

Beside  .him  walks  another— no  better,  but  much 
cleanlier  clad,  and  the  broad  patches  of  his  blue 
overalls  are  cleanly  put  on  and  not  fringed  with  rag- 
ged  edges.  He  has  a  home  — you  can  see  that  — 
and,  humble  as  it  may  be,  there  is  a  woman  who  is 
a  confidant  as  well  as  a  wife,  and  together  they  plan 
how  to  use  their  little  means  and  increase  their  scanty 
store  of  comforts.  They  have  ambition,  and  ambi 
tion  to  improve  one's  condition  never  fails  to  give 
force  to  character,  and  something  of  dignity  and 
worth  to  life. 

Here  is  a  boy,  too,  not  yet  out  of  his  teens,  but 
there  is  something  cheery  about  his  countenance 
which  shows  that  hope  has  issued  him  some  drafts 
upon  the  future,  and  the  thought  of  some  good  he 
is  struggling  for  takes  the  bitterness  from  his  life  of 
toil.  So  the  world  goes  — each  heart  lighted  by 
some  hope,  as  each  home  is  lighted  by  a  lamp  of-  its 
own. 

When  we  pass  along  the  great  business  thorough 
fares,  and  see  the  stately  blocks  rearing  high  their 
fronts  adorned  with  elaborate  and  artistic  workman 
ship,  we  do  not  think  of  the  great  strong  blocks  lying 
hidden  in  basement  and  foundation  walls,  upon  which 
the  weight  of  the  whole  superstructure  securely  rests. 
Just  so  does  labor  underlie  the  whole  system  of 
commercial  and  business  life,  and  wherever  are  the 
homes  of  opulence  and  th<§  palaces  of  trade,  there, 
close  by,  are  the  scanty  dwellings  tenanted  by  the 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  173 

numerous  families  of  the  "tin-pail  brigade."  To 
narrow  the  distance  between  these  extremes  —  to 
give  capital  the  encouragement  and  protection  to 
which  it  is  entitled,  and  upon  which  its  existence  de 
pends,  and  at  the  same  time  give  to  labor  the  best 
remuneration,  the  broadest  field  and  the  amplest  op 
portunity  possible,  is  the  one  great  problem  which 
the  government  has  to  solve  to-day. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   ON   READING   LINCOLN'S   INAUGURAL  ADDRESS. 

On  stormy  seas  our  good  ship  sails, 
The  breakers  gleam  along  the  shore; 

She  feels  the  breath  of  threat'ning  gales, 
And  quivers  in  the  tempest's  roar. 

Now  is  our  hour  of  utmost  need 

We  watch  each  strained  and  bending  mast, 

And  saddened  hearts  in  pity  plead, 
"  God  save  her  till  the  peril's  past." 

But  he  who  rules  her  deck  to-day 
Is  stout  of  heart  and  firm  of  hand, 

And,  mid  the  madd'ning  tempest's  play, 
Stands  calm,  courageous,  fearless,  grand. 

Thank  God !  the  hour  has  found  the  man, 
The  night  shall  broaden  into  day ; 

Our  land  shall  stand  in  Freedom's  van, 
And  Order  reign,  Und  Law  have  sway. 


174  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

LIGHT.  —  What  a  wonderful  thing  is  Light,  which 
flows  in  upon  us  each  morning  as  fresh  as  if  new 
created,  and  steals  away  at  night  as  slowly  and 
regretfully  as  if  that  parting  beam  was  its  last! 
What  a  cheery  philosopher  is  light!  —  always  look 
ing  on  the  bright  side  of  things,  and  bringing  life 
and  bloom  wherever  it  goes.  And  what  an  artist  it 
is!  How  it  revels  in  the  gorgeousness  and  delights 
in  the  delicacy  of  color !  What  a  glory  it  throws  on 
valley  and  hillside!  How  it  stoops  to  deck  the 
smallest  flower  with  beauty,  and  searches  out  all 
penetrable  nooks  and  corners  and  throws  the  smile 
of  its  gladness  in  upon  them!  How  it  lingers  on 
the  cheek  of  youth,  tinging  it  with  a  bloom  no 
painter  can  copy,  and  then  —  the  daring  artist  — 
how  it  steals  up  to  Beauty's  lips,  and  leaves  a  crim 
son  line  on  their  very  verge  ! 

BY  the  way,  reader,  did  you  ever  reflect  that  a  man 
or  woman  never  gets  over  the  childish  fear  of  the 
dark  ?  Reason  and  resolution  may  do  much  to  con 
trol  it,  but  fragments  of  our  childish  fears  and  super 
stitions  cling  to  our  stoutest  manhood,  just  as  at 
brightest  noon  shreds  and  patches  of  the  night  linger 
in  shadow  beneath  the  boughs  of  the  thick-leaved 
trees.  The  darkness  which  hems  in  the  day  seems 
to  be  linked  by  mysterious  influence  to  the  darkness 
which  circumscribes  our  lives,  and  vague  fears, 
shadowy  forebodings,  ill -denned,  unshapen  fancies 
oppress  us  then,  which  we  laugh  at  in  the  skeptical 
light  of  day. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  175 


REASON   AND   RELIGION. 

We  have  no  sympathy  with  that  rigid,  purblind 
righteousness  which  clothes  itself  in  an  impenetrable 
conservatism  — which  clings,  with  obstinate  tenacity, 
to  old  beliefs  — which  believes  every  innovation  on 
the  established  order  of  things  to  be  of  the  devil,  and 
so  shuts  its  ears  against  all  discussion.  We  are  not 
to  be  frightened  from  the  discussion  of  any  import 
ant  subject  by  the  cry  that  the  devil  is  one  of  the 
chief  debaters.  We  remember  that  our  blessed 
Saviour  was  accused  as  a  blasphemer  and  Sabbath- 
breaker  by  the  religionists  of  his  day.  We  remem 
ber  that  all  true  progress  in  science  and  religion  has 
been  pointed  out  by  those  who  were  deemed  foolish 
or  mad,  and  that  the  great  benefactors  of  mankind 
have  been  greeted  with  calumny  and  contempt. 
Speech,  discussion  is  the  wind  that  is  to  winnow  the 
chaff  from  the  wheat ;  and  error  cannot  be  confined 
in  darkness,  and  rendered  innocuous,  but  it  must 
be  vanquished  in  open  combat,  under  the  broad 
daylight  of  heaven. 

For  ourself,  we  have  no  craving  desire  to  get  a 
sight  into  the  spiritual  world.  If  there  is  any  spirit 
who  wishes  to  communicate  to  us  anything  important 
or  beneficial,  we  should  be  most  happy  to  pay  him 
respectful  attention ;  but  we  regard  the  practice  and 
precepts  of  Christ  as  not  only  a  safe,  but  sufficient 
law  of  life, —  a  law  which,  if  obeyed,  will  bring  bless 
ing  here,  and  added  blessing  hereafter. 


176  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

We  are  not  so  ready  to  deify  reason  as  some  are. 
We  have  an  idea  that  faith  is  not  to  be  despised. 
Reason  should  be  our  guide  in  all  matters  which  lie 
within  its  province ;  but  religion  has  mysteries  which 
the  human  mind  cannot  fathom.  Reason  and  Reli 
gion  never  contradict  each  other;  they  run  on  in 
closest  unity  and  most  perfect  harmony,  until  religion 
passes  beyond  the  ken  of  reason,  and  there  reason 
should  merge  into  faith,  even  as  the  early  light  of 
morning  melts  into  the  splendors  of  broadening  day. 
WE  speak  of  Columbus  as  the  Great  Discoverer, 
forgetful  that  all  around  us  are  discoverers  greater 
than  he.  He  widened  the  horizon  of  the  world  for 
the  people  of  his  day,  and  for  those  who  have  suc 
ceeded  them  ;  but  the  process  of  discovery  has  been 
continually  going  on,  until  now  the  clear  eye  of  Sci 
ence  reaches  to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  disclosing 
hidden  treasures  and  mysteries,  and  successfully 
searches  the  far-off  heavens,  for  stars  and  constella 
tions  unknown  before. 

Art  has  supplemented  Nature  with  manifold  won 
ders.  Invention  has  reinforced  the  strength  and 
increased  the  power  of  man,  until  the  world  of  Co 
lumbus'  time  is  but  an  infant  beside  its  manly  stature 
of  to-day.  Into  this  wider  world  every  human  being 
comes  in  perfect  ignorance,  and  Life  is  but  a  Voy 
age  of  Discovery  among  its  countless  wonders. 

Just  watch  the  growing  intellect  of  your  child. 
The  first  blind  gropings  of  mental  activity  are  fol 
lowed  by  that  busy  baby-life  which  is  satisfied  by 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  177 

nursery  toys.  Soon  the  increasing  stature  of  the 
little  one  is  fitted  for  outdoor  recreations,  and  ac 
quaintance  with  the  ever  increasing  circle  of  com 
panionship  begins.  What  ardor  and  enthusiasm  in 
the  youthful  discoverer  now!  How  the  larger 
thoughts,  the  new  ideas,  throng  to  the  receptive 
mind !  Every  night  shuts  down  upon  a  wider  hori 
zon  ;  every  morning  beckons  to  new  experiences  and 
untrodden  paths.  Daily  you  can  mark  the  mental 
growth,  and  gladly  note  the  joy  of  new  discovery  — 
the  enlarging  life  —  the  outreaching  mind. 

We  are  all  but  children  of  a  larger  growth,  sur 
rounded  by  outlying,  undiscovered  realms.  Through 
these  we  grope  from  day  to  day.  The  farther  our 
vision  reaches,  the  more  we  see  beyond,  just  as  the 
sailor  knows  that,  beyond  the  limit  of  the  seeming 
horizon  that  shuts  him  in,  the  waters  are  rolling  in 
wild  waves,  or  sleeping  idly  in  the  sun.  Every  day 
increases  our  knowledge  and  ripens  our  experience. 
Gulfs  of  unexpected  faithlessness  or  hate  yawn  be 
fore  us,  and  new  loves  and  friendships  join  the  pro 
cession  of  our  lives. 

Every  night  we  are  moored  for  a  few  hours  by  the 
shores  of  Sleep,  and  with  the  break  of  every  morn  we 
sail  again  upon  the  trackless  sea  of  Time,  piloting 
our  course  as  best  we  may  towards  the  Wealth  that 
gleams  in  the  distance  —  the  Truth  that  shines  se 
renely  on  the  far  horizon  —  the  Beautiful,  which 
allures  us  with  uplifted  brow,  persuasive  smile  and 
beckoning  hand.  Voyagers  and  discoverers  are 

we  all. 

12 


178  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

GOD  never  forgets  anything.  All  his  works,  from 
the  creation  of  a  world  to  the  tinting  of  a  leaf,  are 
finished  —  perfect. 

Did  you  ever  stand  under  a  full-boughed,  heavy- 
foliaged  tree  in  summer-time,  and  pluck  one  of  its 
myriad  leaves  and  examine  its  delicate  tracery,  its 
coloring,  the  very  perfection  of  its  finished  beauty, 
and  then  think  of  the  countless  number  of  such 
leaves,  of  the  mighty  forests  whose  luxuriant  growth 
covers  so  much  of  the  world,  and  reflect  that  among 
them  all  there  is  not  a  leaf  unfinished  —  each  per 
fect  in  its  form  and  color  ? 

And  did  you  ever  pick  a  flower,  either  from  cult 
ured  garden  or  by  way-side  walk,  enjoy  its  odor  and 
bless  its  beauty,  and  stop  to  think  how  all  the  wide 
earth  blossoms  with  such  fragrant  beauty,  and  no 
flower  of  them  all  forgotten  —  the  same  careful  hand 
filling  each  glowing  heart  with  perfume  and  coloring 
every  leaf  with  care  ? 

When  we  think  of  this  Omniscience,  of  this  never- 
failing  care,  we  feel  something  of  the  attributes  of 
that  Power — unseen,  yet  ever  present;  untouched, 
yet  always  felt  —  who  gives  to  the  violet  its  color,  to 
the  rose  its  fragrance,  who  tints  with  beauty  the 
tiniest  leaf,  and  yet  whose  hand  controls  the  planets 
in  their  courses,  and  whose  fiat  rules  the  counties? 
worlds. 

IT  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  able  to  ripen  without  shriv 
eling;  to  reach  the  calmness  of  age,  and  still  keep 
the  warm  heart  and  ready  sympathy  of  youth. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  179 


BLIGHT  AND  BLOOM. 

Never,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  has  there  been 
a  time  when  the  terrible  blight  of  life,  home,  happi 
ness  and  possessions  has  descended  upon  vast  num 
bers  of  people  in  such  sudden  and  swift  destruction 
as  recently  in  our  own  Northwest,  and  never  has 
there  been  a  time  when  heroic  fortitude  and  sweet 
and  gracious  charity  have  bloomed  with  a  beauty  so 
inspiring  and  glorious  as  now.  Paradise  was  lost 
anew  in  the  awful  maelstrom  of  flame ;  Paradise  was 
regained  again  in  a  vision  of  the  millions  of  treasure 
spontaneously  poured  into  the  lap  of  suffering  want, 
and  the  tens  of  thousands  of  feet  all  over  the  civil 
ized  world  hastening  with  swift  emulation  in  the 
work  of  mercy  and  fraternal  human  love.  One 
picture  is  as  if  hell  had  burst  its  bounds,  and  ran  in 
unchecked  riot  for  a  time;  the  next  as  if  pitying 
heaven  had  touched  every  heart  with  the  divine  im 
pulse  to  relieve  the  suffering  and  repair  the  loss. 

It  is  impossible  for  words  to  portray  either  the 
darkness  of  the  disaster  or  the  brightness  of  the  re 
lief.  The  most  eloquent  description  can  no  more 
picture  the  concentrated  horror  of  the  destruction 
of  Chicago  than  a  child's  exclamation  of  wonder  at 
a  single  star  can  portray  the  dazzling  splendors  of 
the  countless  suns  and  systems  which  fill  the  unex 
plored  and  unimagined  boundaries  of  the  universe 
of  God.  Looking  back  now  at  those  blackened 
wastes  and  colossal  ruins,  they  seem  even  more 


180  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

mournful  and  impressive  than  when  we  wandered 
through  streets  filled  with  the  flying  ashes  of  homes, 
or  clambered  over  the  broken  fragments  of  palaces 
of  trade,  through  which  malignant  flames  still  darted 
their  destroying  tongues  and  hissed  with  scorching 
breath.  Here  the  dread  vision  of  the  Apocalypse 
was  realized — the  very  rocks  had  melted  with  fer 
vent  heat,  and  the  treasures  of  art,  the  accumulations 
of  industry,  the  gains  of  commerce,  were  all  rolled 
together  like  a  scroll,  and  heaped  in  one  irremedia 
ble  ruin.  There  has  been  no  scene  of  similar  deso 
lation  since  the  ark  rested  on  Ararat,  and  the  dove 
winged  her  weary  way  over  a  submerged  world. 

But  if  here  was  loss  in  gigantic  form,  and  3,  horror 
concentrated  as  never  known  before,  in  our  own 
State  was  a  desolation  spreading  over  a  broader  area 
and  marked  by  scenes  more  sickening  and  suffering 
more  intense.  Such  a  wave  of  hell  as  broke  upon 
doomed  Peshtigo,  and  spread  in  fiery  ruin  over  the 
adjacent  country,  has  not  been  known  since  God's 
vengeance  blotted  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  from 
existence.  Who  can  conceive  the  surprise,  the 
struggle,  the  agony,  the  despair,  the  awfulness  of  the 
situation  and  the  powerlessness  of  the  victims  ?  Men 
in  their  strength,  women  in  their  beauty,  new-born 
babes  in  their  sv/addling  clothes,  lovers  in  each 
other's  arms,  corpses  in  their  shrouds,  and  the  cof 
fined  dead  ready  for  the  tomb,  became  flame  and 
ashes  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  while  others  baf 
fling  the  destroyer  for  a  time,  were  at  last  caught  in 
his  terrible  grasp,  and  strangled  in  his  embrace  or 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  181 

left  writhing  in  an  agony  to  which  death  would  be 
welcome  relief. 

From  such  a  picture  it  is  sweet  relief  to  turn  to 
that  sun-burst  of  sympathy  which  has  illumined  the 
world,  and  gilded  our  poor  humanity  with  a  glory 
unrecognized  and  unknown  before.  Then  we  found 
to  what  noble  uses  the  telegraph  and  railroad  might 
be  put.  Everywhere  the  lightning  spoke  the  story 
of  suffering  and  ruin,  and  brought  back  the  response 
of  sympathy  and  aid,  and  in  every  city  and  along 
every  line  of  railway  the  great  engines  seemed  to 
nerve  themselves  for  a  race  to  the  aid  of  the  house 
less  and  hungry  fugitives  from  flame.  All  ordinary 
feelings  and  interests  were  submerged  in  the  one 
intense  desire  to  render  aid  to  those  so  suddenly 
stricken  with  overwhelming  loss.  No  thought  of 
church,  creed  or  condition  divided  the  force  of  feel 
ing  which  filled  every  heart  and  found  expression  on 
every  tongue.  It  was  a  new  revelation  of  "  good 
will  to  men"  —  a  sublime  translation  of  the  gospel 
of  Him  who  taught  that  it  was  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive,  and  who  said  that  "  Inasmuch  as 
you  have  done  it  unto  these,  my  brethren,  you  have 
done  it  unto  me." 

The  response  everywhere  was  so  prompt,  the  re 
lief  so  abundant,  and  the  sympathy  so  sincere,  that 
it  seems  useless  to  point  out  single  instances,  but 
one  was  so  large  that  it  well  deserves  mention. 

At  the  first  news  of  the  calamity,  the  Erie  Rail 
road  made  up  a  New  York  train,  and  sent  its  many 
agents  and  employe's  through  the  city  gathering  sup- 


1 82  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

plies.  A  few  hours  accomplished  the  work,  and 
while  this  was  doing,  President  Gould  performed  a 
work  unequaled  in  the  history  of  railroad  manage 
ment.  All  along  the  line  his  orders  flew  that  the 
relief  train  had  the  right  of  way.  And  so  it  started, 
with  relays  of  engines  provided,  and  orders  to  make 
not  less  than  forty  miles  an  hour.  Such  a  trip  was 
never  known  before.  The  great  freight  trains  sought 
the  safety  of  side-tracks.  The  lightning  expresses, 
with  their  mails  and  treasure,  with  passengers  hurry 
ing  to  meet  business  appointments,  or  intent  on  rec 
reation —  all  stood  still  waiting  for  the  passage  of 
this  unexpected  train.  Trade  checked  its  impatience, 
pleasure  forgot  its  disappointment,  while  mercy  sped 
on,  supplied  with  more  than  royal  munificence  and 
hastening  with  unimagined  speed.  It  was  a  glorious 
thing  to  do. 

So  the  one  picture  relieves  the  other.  While  the 
world  is  poorer  to-day  by  millions  of  treasure  and 
hundreds  of  lives,  it  is  richer  in  the  discovery  of  its 
own  heroic  qualities  and  saintly  charities,  and  the 
conviction  must  come  home  with  redoubled  force  to 
us  all  that,  however  poor  and  barren  our  individual 
lives  may  be,  Humanity  is  heroic,  affluent,  large  and 
warm. 

DRESS  is  to  a  woman  what  binding  is  to  a  book  — 
it  may  greatly  improve  the  appearance,  but  cannot 
give  increased  value  to  the  worth  or  worthlessness 
of  that  which  it  adorns. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  183 


RADICALISM. 

The  mass  of  timid  and  doubtful  men,  the  men  who 
were  sure  the  Rebellion  never  could  be  subdued,  the 
men  who  look  on  progress  as  necessary  disaster,  and 
to  whom  a  hoary  error  is  more  sacred  than  a  living 
truth,  look  on  Radicalism  as  though  it  meant  "  chaos 
come  again,"  and  Radicals  as  though  they  were  sac 
rilegious  vandals  wantonly  plundering  the  Temple 
of  Liberty.  To  their  dim  vision  a  Radical  is  a  de 
stroyer —  whereas  he  is  only  the  true  renewer  and 
builder. 

You  go  through  a  street  in  a  great  city,  and  you 
see  the  workmen  tearing  down  a  building  which  has 
stood  long  and  answered  a  useful  purpose.  What 
waste  !  What  criminal  destruction  of  property !  you 
say.  Not  so.  The  old  building  is  removed,  the 
rubbish  is  cleared  away,  and  a  new,  spacious  and 
beautiful  edifice  is  raised  in  its  place. 

Now,  constitutions  and  laws  are  the  house  a  nation 
lives  in,  the  clothes  it  wears,  and  if  there  is  growth 
in  the  people  there  must  be  change  in  the  laws. 
Their  spirit  may  not  change,  but  their  form  must  — 
just  as  the  boy  may  wear  the  same  kind  of  cloth 
after  he  becomes  a  man,  but  it  must  be  cut  by  a 
larger  pattern. 

The  Radical  is  not  the  vandal  who  sacks  and  de 
stroys  with  no  object  but  ruin;  he  is  the  wise  builder 
who  removes  the  old,  which  has  been  outgrown,  and 
replaces  in  its  stead  the  new,  which  is  adapted  to 


184  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

present  need.  In  the  fever  and  flush  of  a  political 
revolution,  like  that  of  the  few  years  past,  much  that 
is  crude  and  unwise  may  be  suggested  by  too  enthu 
siastic  leaders,  but  the  people  are  pretty  sure  to  act 
with  a  wise  moderation,  in  the  spirit  of  true  Radi 
calism. 

Radicalism  is  the  synonym  of  all  that  is  wise, 
heroic  and  humane  in  the  American  politics  of 
to-day. 


LOOKS  UPWARD  TO  GOD. 

[I  turn  then  to  the  American  people,  and  to  that  God  who  has  never 
forsaken  them.  — Extract  from  Lincoln's  speech  at  Columbus,  Ohio.'] 

There's  a  storm  in  the  land  threat'ning  wide  desolation, 
There's  a  must'ring  of  men,  and  a  firing  of  blood ; 

But  trust  fills  our  hearts,  for  the  hope  of  the  nation, 
The  chief  of  our  choosing,  looks  upward  to  God. 

In  the  virtue  of  man  and  the  blessings  of  heaven, 
His  faith  rests  unshaken,  his  heart  knows  no  fear , 

For  that  God  who  the  boon  of  our  freedom  has  given, 
Will  shine  through  our  darkness,  and  smile  on  us  here. 

Then  treason  may  mock  —  cursed  sons  of  the  nation 
May  stab  at  the  hand  that  has  given  them  food  ; 

But  the  ark  of  our  freedom  stands  firm  and  unshaken, 
For  the  chief  of  our  choosing  looks  upward  to  God. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  185 

INFLUENCE  OF  LITERATURE 
UPON   LIFE. 

The  fable  of  the  "  living  tree,  Igdrasil,  with  the  me 
lodious,  prophetic  wavings  of  its  world-wide  boughs, 
deep-rooted  as  Hela,"  has  died  out ;  but  in  its  place 
we  have  the  accomplished  fact  of  the  Printing  Press, 
with  wider  influence  than  fable  ever  foreshadowed, 
with  power  more  potent  than  Pagan  philosophy  ever 
dreamed  of. 

Much  as  is  accorded  to  the  press,  men  do  not  yet 
fully  appreciate  the  controlling  influence  which  Lit 
erature  has  upon  Life. 

Burke  appreciated  it  when  he  said  there  were 
three  estates  in  Parliament,  but  in  the  reporters' 
gallery  there  sat  a  fourth  estate  more  important  far 
than  they  all. 

Mr.  Southey  understood  it.  "  Literature  will  take 
care  of  itself,"  said  Mr.  Pitt,  when  applied  to  for 
some  help  for  Burns.  "Yes,"  added  Mr.  Southey, 
"  it  will  take  care  of  itself,  and  of  you,  too,  if  you  do 
not  look  to  it." 

Carlyle  saw  its  growing  prospective  power,  when, 
thirty  years  ago,  he  proclaimed  in  his  brave,  reso 
nant  speech,  "  I  say  of  all  priesthoods,  aristocracies, 
governing  classes  at  present  extant  in  the  world, 
there  is  no  class  comparable  for  importance  to  that 
priesthood  of  the  writers  of  books." 

The  art  of  writing  —  and  of  printing,  which  is  a 
sequence  to  it,  —  is  really  the  most  wonderful  thing 


i86 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 


m  the  world.  Books  are  the  soul  of  actions,  the 
nly  audible,  articulate  voice  of  the  accomplished 
facts  of  the  past.  The  men  of  antiquity  are  dead  • 
their  fleets  and  armies  have  disappeared,  their  cities 
are  rums,  their  temples  are  dust-yet  all  these  exist 
in  magic  preservation  in  the  books  they  have  be 
queathed  to  us,  and  their  names  and  their  deeds  are 
as  familiar  to  us  as  the  events  of  yesterday.  And 
these  papers  and  books- the  mass  of  printed  matter 
which  we  call  Literature  -  are  really  the  teacher, 
guide  and  law-giver  of  the  world  to-day. 

You  may  judge  a  man  more  truly  by  the  books 
and  papers  which  he  reads  than  by  the  company 
which  he  keeps  — for  his  associates  are  often  in  a 
manner  forced  upon  him,  but  his  reading  is  the  re 
sult  of  choice  —  and  the  man  who  chooses  a  certain 
class  of  books  and  papers  unconsciously  becomes 
more  colored  with  their  views,  more  rooted  in  their 
opinions,  the  mind  becoming 

"  Subdued  to  what  it  works  in, 
Like  the  dyer's  hand." 

We  have  not  space  to  specify  the  various  proofs 
of  the  controlling  influence  of  Literature.  We  can 
only  state  undeniable  general  truths.  All  the  life 
and  feeling  of  the  young  girl,  fascinated  by  some 
glowing  love  romance,  is  colored  and  shaped  by  the 
page  she  reads.  If  it  is  false  and  weak  and  foolish, 
she  will  be  false  and  weak  and  foolish  too ;  but  if  it 
is  true  and  tender  and  inspiring,  then  something  of 
its  truth  and  tenderness  and  inspiration  will  grow 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  187 

into  her  soul  and  become  part  of  her  very  self.    The 
boy  who  reads  of  deeds  of  manliness,  of  bravery  ^ 
and  noble  daring,  feels  the  spirit  of  emulation  grow 
within  him,  and  the  seed  is  planted  which  will  bring 
forth  fruit  of  heroic  endeavor  and  exalted  life. 


TRUE  FRIENDS. 

MY  DEAR  JOE  : 

Did  you  ever  think  how  transitory  most  of  the 
friendships  of  life  are  —  how  very  slight  the  tie  that 
binds  us  even  to  those  whose  company  we  enjoy, 
and  whose  pleasure  we  would  promote  ?  How  easily 
change  of  place  or  circumstance  crowds  out  the  old 
occupants  of  the  heart  and  welcomes  new  ones  in ! 
We  are  surrounded  with  pleasant  people,  their 
society  fills  a  large  place  in  our  lives,  their  respect 
and  esteem  is  highly  valued,  we  are  glad  to  receive 
and  render  favors;  but  let  us  be  removed  from 
them  but  a  short  distance,  just  so  that  the  orbits  of 
our  daily  life  do  not  intersect  each  other,  and  some 
how  they  fade  imperceptibly  but  surely  away,  just 
as  the  mist  fades  or  the  closing  day  darkens. 

And  the  dead  —  they  whose  life,  while  living, 
seemed  a  necessity  to  our  own,  and  whose  death  was 
like  an  eclipse  of  all  our  joyous  being  —  how  easily 
we  become  accustomed  to  their  absence,  and  daily 
duties  and  new-found  loves  bridge  over  the  awful 
chasm  and  fill  the  gloomy  chaos  which  their  depart 
ure  made. 


i88  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

But  some  friendships  live;  some  loves  take  such 
^  deep  hold  upon  the  heart  that 

Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear." 

Did  you  ever  go  into  some  rich  old  picture  gallery, 
Joe,  where  the  walls  were  hung  with  glowing  master 
pieces  of  nature  and  life  — grandeur  to  awe  the  soul, 
and  beauty  to  delight  the  eye,  and  where  the  ceilings 
were  illuminated  by  the  hand  of  genius  and  radiant 
with  the  very  smile  and  triumph  of  art?  Those  pict 
ures  come  and  go.  Where  you  find  a  favorite  to-day 
a  new-comer  will  hang  to-morrow;  but  the  frescoed 
miracles  of  art  stay  steadfast  in  their  place.  No 
change  disturbs  them,  but  there  they  remain,  grow 
ing  ripe  and  mellow  with  age. 

Just  so  it  is  with  the  heart.  Many  pleasant  occu 
pants  come  and  go,  but  there  are  those  who  stay,  like 
the  frescoes  on  the  walls  and  are  an  integral  portion 
of  the  heart  itself.  He  who  has  such  friends  —  whose 
memory  is  a  picture  gallery,  where  in  frescoed  beauty 
smile  the  faces  of  unfading  love  —  is  rich  indeed, 
rich  in  goods  that  cannot  be  purchased  in  the  mar 
ket,  and  whose  value  does  not  fluctuate  with  the 
price  of  gold.  That  you  and  I,  Joe,  may  have  such 
friends,  and  deserve  them,  is  the  wish  of  LUTE. 

A  DOCTOR  is  continually  standing  upon  the  con 
fines  of  existence  —  welcoming  the  new-comer,  bid 
ding  farewell  to  the  goer-away. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  189 


ART. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  humbug  about  what  is 
called  Art.     It  is  regarded  as  "  nice,"  and  for  its  sake 
the  fashionable  lady  endures  an  opera  which  she 
cannot  comprehend,  and  the  school  miss  works  im 
possible  animals  in  stunning  colors.    Men  will  crowd 
a  theatre  to  see  the  representation  of  Medea  —  a 
roused,  passionate  woman  —  and  applaud  the  mimic 
representation  with  delight,  when  very  likely  many 
of  them,  if  at  home,  could  witness  the  reality  itself 
without  the  expense  of  buying  a  ticket.     Look  at 
pictures.     A  short  time  ago  we  were  all  enthusiastic 
over  Prang's  chromos  of  ducks  and  chickens.     How 
foolish  to  purchase  the  picture,  when  we  could  buy 
the  live  chicken  for  less  money,  which  would  be  at 
least  fully  as  "natural"  as  the  picture,   and,  after 
having  admired  its  beauty,  we  could  broil  its  body 
and  gratify  the  taste  with  its  delicate   flavor,  thus 
making  it  serve  a  useful  as  well  as  aesthetic  purpose ! 
—  like  the  South  Sea  Islander,  who  patiently  listens 
while  the  missionary  strives  to  enlighten  his  benighted 
mind,  and  then  coolly  carves  and  cooks  the  preacher 
and  appeases  his  hunger  with  the  savory  joints.  Just 
now  Correggio's  "  Magdalen  "  is   a  great  favorite. 
The  picture  is  rich,  voluptuous,  fascinating.      But 
we  suppose  there  are  very  many  fully  as  beautiful 
and  finely  formed  young  women  alive  to-day  —  yet 
their  friends  would  hardly  advise  them  to  adopt  the 
scanty  costume  and  abandon  of  manner  which  is  ad- 


190  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

mired  in  Magdalen,  who  probably  was  not  a  very 
nice,  fastidious  girl.  Look  at  landscape  paintings. 
People  will  go  into  ecstacies  over  an  impossible  land 
scape  hanging  on  a  parlor  wall,  who  are  blind  to  the 
wondrous  exhibitions  of  nature  around  them,  and 
never  lift  their  sleepy  eyes  to  that  wondrous  picture 
gallery,  the  sky,  which  God's  mighty  hand  fills  day 
and  night  with  forms  and  colors  of  ever-changing 
glory  and  gloom.  Art  is  valuable  only  as  an  incen 
tive  to  observe,  and  a  help  to  appreciate  nature.  It 
should  be  a  means,  not  an  end  —  the  priestess  in  the 
temple  service,  not  the  goddess  to  whom  adoration 
is  given. 


TO  DESDEMONA. 

Thou  bright  creation  of  the  poet's  mind! 

In  thee  did  his  great  soul  express 

Its  fairest  type  of  female  loveliness. 

In  thee  all  feelings  pure,  refined, 

Do  dwell.     Each  inmost  thought  of  thine 

Is  holy  as  a  saint's  rapt  dream  of  heaven, 

While  every  outward  charm  to  thee  is  given. 

As  timid  buds  blush  coyly  into  bloom, 

So  do  thy  modest  virtues  show  their  worth ; 

And  as  the  full  flower  sheds  a  rich  perfume, 

So  doth  thy  presence  beautify  the  earth. 

Oh,  winning  Teacher !   Thou  didst  well  fulfill 

Life's  holy  mission,  and  though  dark  thy  fate, 

Yet  from  thy  pure  life  will  we  still 

Learn  to  love  virtue  for  its  own  dear  sake. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  191 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  PRINCIPLE. 

[Written  upon  the  occasion  of  the  dissolution  of  the  Ameri 
can  Anti-Slavery  Society.] 

The  world  has  seldom  witnessed  a  more  imposing 
sight  than  the  grand  military  review  at  Washington 
at  the  close  of  the  late  war.  The  victorious  veterans 
of  the  army  of  the  Republic,  bronzed  by  sun  and 
battered  by  fight,  swept  in  triumphal  procession  past 
the  pleased  eyes  of  chiefs  and  civilians,  and  brave 
men  paid  them  heartfelt  homage,  and  lovely  women 
gilded  the  glory  of  their  achievements  with  the 
brightness  of  beauty's  smiles.  The  sight  was  grand 
and  inspiring,  and  when  that  mighty  army  so  sud 
denly  melted  away  —  the  resistless  soldiers  becoming 
quiet,  peaceful  citizens  once  more  —  the  world  looked 
on  in  wonder,  and  marveled  at  the  flexibility  of  our 
national  life,  and  at  the  almost  miraculous  complete 
ness  of  the  change. 

But  there  was  another  "muster  out,"  a  few  days 
since,  no  less  full  of  significance.  It  lacked  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  the  Washington  review 
—  its  soldiers  wore  no  uniform,  but  they  were  vete 
rans  none  the  less.  It  was  the  dissolution  of  the 
American  Anti-Slavery  Society.  That  society  has 
been  engaged  in  a  forty  years'  war,  and  there  were 
veterans  at  the  final  muster  out  who  had  been  among 
the  earliest  enlistments. 

In  its  infancy,  the  members  of  that  society  en- 


192  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

dured  contumely  and  hate,  they  were  the  objects  of 
reproach  and  scorn,  they  suffered  personal  indignity 
and  were  exposed  to  personal  danger.  Unseduced 
by  the  blandishments  of  social  position,  and  unal- 
lured  by  the  temptations  of  political  power,  they 
followed  where  duty  led,  as  grandly  as  Israel  fol 
lowed  the  cloudy  pillar  and  the  flaming  guide  —  far 
they  knew  that,  as  of  old,  God  was  in  the  van,  and 
his  people  would  not  suffer  loss. 

By-and-by  conviction  came  to  the  multitude,  truth 
was  triumphant,  and  tardy  honor  kissed  the  veterans' 
brows.  They  lay  off  their  armor  now,  for  the  victory 
is  complete,  the  work  is  done. 


THE   BANNER. 

[Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  presentation  of  a  prize  banner  by  the 
State  to  Pierce  county,  Wis..  for  the  best  display  of  farm  products  at  the 
State  fair-1 

Thou  wast  not  won  on  bloody  field, 

Where  murderous  hosts  in  conflict  meet ; 

But  where  the  long  broad  furrows  yield 
Their  yellow  wealth  of  ripened  wheat. 

Now  Honor  sits  on  Labor's  brow, 

The  golden  days  return  again  ; 
And  Science  fair  shall  guide  the  plow 

Which  turns  the  brown  tilth  of  the  plain. 

Peace  hath  her  victories,  and  the  land 

Which  honors  thus  her  sons  of  toil 
Shall  never  want  a  willing  hand 

To  guard  or  till  her  fruitful  soil. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  193 


THE  WANING  YEAR. 

"  The  year  growing  ancient, 
Not  yet  on  Summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  Winter." 

—Shaks.  Winter's  Tale. 

Autumn  is  the  season  of  fruition,  recompense,  re 
ward.  Spring  is  the  time  of  promise ;  Summer,  of 
busy  fulfillment ;  Autumn,  of  ripened,  perfected  full 
ness  and  possession.  In  Autumn  nature  pays  the 
bills  which  have  been  drawn  upon  her  through  the 
year,  and  decks  herself  with  lavish  expenditure  and 
more  than  royal  pomp  and  beauty. 

June  is  full  of  fragrance  and  subtle  beauty,  but 
October  is  ripe,  sensuous,  glowing,  imperial.  On 
these  warm,  hazy  days,  when  the  sunlight  kisses  but 
does  not  scorch,  when  the  very  streams  seem  to 
meditate  as  they  murmer  along,  when  wood-crowned 
bluff  and  hillside  glow  with  every  imaginable  color, 
and  the  soft  haze,  like  the  veil  of  a  bride,  heightens 
the  beauty  which  it  half  conceals, —  on  such  days 
the  lost  Eden  seems  restored  again,  the  old  poetic 
traditions  of  mythology  revive,  and  wood  and  field 
and  spring  and  glen  are  sanctified  by  the  presence 
of  attendant  deities  who  whisper  their  secrets  into 
willing  ears.  It  is  a  "liberal  education"  to  be 
abroad  at  such  a  time,  providing  only  one  has  the 
eye  to  see  the  unexcelled  and  ever-shifting  panorama 
of  beauty,  and  the  heart  to  treasure  up  its  wonderful 
revelations. 

13 


194  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

One  fact  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  observer,  and 
that  is  the  uniformity  of  the  "  fall  fashions  "  for  bird 
or  beast  or  field  or  tree.  The  prairie  chicken,  which 
peers  at  you  from  the  tall  grass,  is  the  same  color  as 
it;  the  partridge,  which  scurries  away  through  the 
thick  underbrush,  is  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
the  foliage  which  covers  its  flight ;  and  even  the  chip 
munk,  which  chippers  at  the  base  of  the  great  bluff, 
wears  in  his  own  striped  coat  the  colors  of  the  oak, 
the  maple  and  the  sumach  which  glow  so  gorgeously 
above  him. 

One  views,  too,  with  an  admiration  which  deepens 
into  awe,  the  perfection  everywhere  manifest.  No 
mistakes  or  incompleteness  here.  That  great  Power 
for  whom  innumerable  temples  are  built,  to  whom 
perpetual  prayer  and  praise  ascends,  and  who  holds 
uncounted  worlds  in  his  keeping,  does  not  neglect 
the  fashioning  of  the  most  slender  stem,  or  the  tint 
ing  of  the  tiniest  leaf. 

A  SHORT  time  ago  we  were  one  of  a  small  party 
which  visited  a  beautiful  cemetery  lying  in  the  lap  of 
majestic  mounds,  and  looking  out  upon  a  fair  city 
and  a  broad  reach  of  prairie  and  river.  Nature  had 
made  this  a  lovely  spot,  and  art  had  added  to  its 
attractions.  The  sunlight  lay  warm  upon  shapely 
evergreens  and  •  carefully  tended  flowers,  and  the 
spot  looked  indeed  like  a  place  of  rest,  where,  "  after 
life's  fitful  fever,"  one  might  sleep  sweetly  and  well. 

Winding  around  and  up  the  stately  bluffs  were 
carriage  ways  of  easy  grade,  and,  terrace  above  ter- 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  195 

race,  bank  above  bank,  rose  the  pillared  massive 
monuments,  or  gleamed  the  humbler  marble  slabs. 
But  more  affecting  than  the  most  costly  memorial 
which  wealth  had  placed  over  the  last  resting  place 
of  its  loved,  were  the  frequent  little  mounds,  newly 
made,  which  told  where  a  mother  had  laid  her  child 
down  in  the  embrace  of  that  kindly  Earth  which  is 
mother  of  us  all.  And  then  we  thought  that  these 
sun-warmed,  flower-fringed  banks  of  earth  were 
banks  indeed,  banks  where  we  deposit  our  choicest 
treasures,  and  in  whose  silent  vaults  they  shall  safely 
lie  until  the  resurrection  morn.  And  the  mothers 
who  silently  bore  their  darlings  here  —  we  could  not 
think  of  them  as  impoverished  and  bereft,  but  rather 
as  the  royal  possessors  of  blessed  memories  and  of 
treasures  deposited,  safe  from  all  possible  disaster  or 
loss,  which  should  be  returned  to  them  in  heaven. 
The  balance  of  the  bank-book  is  not  so  sure  an 
index  of  garnered  wealth  as  are  the  little  mounds 
which  break  the  graveyard  sod  into  billows  of  green. 
O,  better  the  mound  and  the  marble  than  the  living 
death  which  blights  but  does  not  kill.  Better  the 
sexton  and  the  bell,  than  the  slow  decay  of  honor, 
the  loss  of  love,  the  sunset  of  hope,  and  the  darken 
ing  eclipse  of  life.  The  cemetery  is  not  a  synonym 
for  sadness,  nor  the  grave  so  dreadful  as  a  stranded, 
rotting  soul.  Not  all  that  marble  covers  was  laid 
down  in  faith  and  love  and  tears,  but  we  know  the 
little  mounds  cover  only  what  was  precious,  pure 
and  fair. 


196  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

THE  BLACK  CROOK.  —  Its  plot  is  moral.  Fiends 
and  fairies  struggle  for  the  possession  of  a  noble 
human  soul,  and  the  fiends  get  badly  euchred.  This 
is  excellent,  and  gives  a  man's  good  resolutions  a 
healthy  jog. 

Its  pictures,  sometimes  called  scenery,  are  very 
gorgeous  and  glowing,  and  have  an  excellent  moral. 
Hell  is  a  fearful  ugly  place,  and  the  abodes  of  the 
fairies,  or  spirits  of  good,  shine  with  splendor,  like  a 
row  of  tin  pans  in  the  summer  sun.  The  wicked 
old  Black  Crook  is  toasted  like  a  muffin  on  Zamiel's 
trident,  and  the  virtuous  Rpdolph  has  a  good  time 
of  it  with  Stalacta  and  the  rest  of  the  girls.  In 
brief,  the  pictures  forcibly  portray  the  sinfulness  of 
sin,  and  the  blessedness  of  being  good. 

Its  ballet  has  been  supposed  to  be  somewhat  de 
moralizing.  It  is  not.  It  is  as  proper  as  a  girl's 
recess  at  a  district  school  in  the  summer  time.  The 
dresses  of  the  dam — sels  are  uselessly  long,  for  the 
lower  limbs  shown  on  the  stage  are  no  more  seduc 
tive  than  the  legs  of  Rus.  Hunger's  pianos,  or  the 
legs  turned  out  by  a  lathe  machine.  This  can  be 
relied  on. 

The  Black  Crook  may  be  slightly  seductive  as 
performed  in  New  York,  but  I  am  proud  to  call 
attention  to  the  superior  morality  of  the  West,  and 
the  tribute  which  Mammon  pays  to  the  virtues  of 
St.  Paul,  in  that  in  deference  to  the  pure  and  healthy 
tastes  of  her  people,  this  play,  as  presented  to  them, 
is  shorn  of  all  appearance  of  evil,  and  is  exalted 
into  a  great  moral  and  almost  evangelical  agency. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  197 

CHRISTMAS  AND  CHRISTMAS 
GIVING. 

What !  Write  about  Christmas;  that  is  an  old  sub 
ject  to  say  anything  fresh  or  interesting  about.  Yes, 
it  is  an  old  subject  —  not  old  as  the  world,  but  only 
old  as  He  whose  divine  nature  and  transcendent 
work  makes  him  hailed  as  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 
There  are  things  older  than  Christmas  which  yet 
have  the  grace  of  youth  and  the  freshness  of  a  first 
experience  in  them.    The  morning,  which  breaks  in 
light  and  wakes  a  world  with  impalpable  touch,  is 
older  than  Christmas,  yet  its  beauty  is  fresh  as  when 
its  beams  first  lit  the  abysses  of  chaos,  and  struggled 
through  the  misty  shrouds  of  ancient  night.     The 
summer   showers,  which  ride  on  sunbeams  to  the 
happy  earth  and  steal  in  vapor  back  to  the  parent 
skies,  are  now  as  fresh  as  when  flower  or  grass  first 
brightened   at    their   touch.      That   wondrous   and 
inimitable  artist,  Frost,  who  covers  in  a  few  hours 
whole  landscapes  with  a  tracery  more   delicate,   a 
finish  more  perfect  than  tiny  brush  of  painter  dare 
to  emulate,  he  is  older  than  the  hills  he  crowns  with 
snows,  or  the  brooks  whose  babbling  voice  he  stills. 
No,  Christmas  really  is  not  so  very  old,  after  all. 
It  is  an  after- thought  of  time  — one  of  the  improve 
ments  of  these  later  progressive  days.  Love,  now  and 
forever  to  be  symbolized  by  a  child,  was  old  before 
the  Star  of  Bethlehem  blessed  the  earth  with  its  re 
joicing  rays.   The  mother  looked  inio  the  sweet  face 


198  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

of  her  babe,  the  youth  walked  with  beating  heart 
beside  the  blushing  maid,  filial  love  tended  rever 
ently  upon  decrepit  age  —  long  before  Mary  sang  her 
low  lullaby  to  the  infant  Jesus,  or  the  wise  men  fol 
lowed  the  star  which  led  to  where  he  lay.  Moses, 
rocked  by  the  reedy  Nile,  and  watched  by  faithful 
love ;  Ruth,  following  the  reapers  with  modest  mien 
and  downcast  eyes ;  Esther,  clad  with  the  purple  of 
power,  yet  linked  with  unabating  love  to  the  lowly 
people  of  her  race  —  shall  we  forget  or  cease  to  listen 
with  rapt  admiration  to  the  simple  annals  of  their 
lives  ?  —  and  yet  they  all  antedate  Christmas  by  long 
centuries  of  years. 

No,  the  story  of  Christmas  is  new  and  ever  will 
be,  for  it  is  in  the  very  essence  of  all  things  noble 
and  loving  and  pure  that  they  laugh  at  time  and 
wear  the  coronal  of  youth  forever.  And  what  so 
noble  as  the  life  whose  beginning  Christmas  com 
memorates? —  what  so  loving  as  that  spirit  which 
has  mellowed  the  asperities  of  life,  and  made  one 
birthday  a  universal  festival  ?  —  what  so  pure  as  the 
doctrines  of  the  Great  Teacher  who  gathered  into  one 
grand  sheaf  all  the  worthy  maxims  of  morality  and 
rules  of  religion  which  had  been  taught  by  saint  or 
sage  before  him,  and  glorified  them  with  a  new  splen 
dor,  and  infused  into  them  a  breadth,  a  power,  hith 
erto  unapproachable  and  unknown  ? 

It  is  fitting  that  Christmas  should  be  a  day  of 
gifts  —  a  holiday  indeed.  It  should  be  the  world's 
vacation  from  care,  its  festival  of  hope  and  joy.  We 
are  taught  that  divine  beneficence  found  its  highest 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  199 

expression  in  the  gift  to  the  world  of  Him  whom 
this  day  commemorates;  so  let  the  Christmas  trees 
blossom  with  beauty,  let  the  Christmas  carols  break 
into  melody,  and  let  happy  childhood  run  riot  in  a 
joy  whose  meaning  and  explanation  shall  come  to 
them  in  riper  years. 


LOAFERISM  IS  DEATH. 

"  What  is  a  man, 

If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed?     A  beast,  no  more." 

—Hamlet. 

Start  not,  reader,  it  is  true.  Loaferism  is  death 
—  death  of  the  most  dismal  and  dangerous  kind. 
There  are  more  kinds  of  death  than  one.  There  is 
the  death  of  the  body,  when  sad  farewells  are  spoken, 
when  eyelids  droop  over  sightless  eyes,  and  pale  lips 
close  over  voiceless  mouths,  when  in  silence  and  mid 
sorrow  the  stern  agony  is  endured,  and  the  light  and 
warmth  of  life  is  exchanged  for  "  the  shroud,  the 
pall,  the  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house." 
This  death  alone  is  inevitable.  But  as  sunlight  often 
gilds  the  mountain's  top,  around  whose  lower  sides 
dark  clouds  are  drifting,  so  is  there  a  land  of  light 
and  blessedness  lying  somewhere  in  the  "  Great  Un 
known."  But  there  is  a  death  or  torpor  of  the  mind, 
a  death  of  kindly  affection,  a  death  of  generous  trust 
and  ennobling  faith,  a  death  of  fixed  purpose  and 


200  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

noble  endeavor  which  lead  to  a  brightness  beyond. 
Here  is  a,  business  man,  alive  to  the  musical  chimes 
of  silver  and  gold,  keen  to  detect  the  means  of  pecu 
niary  gain.     In  his  eager,  untiring  labor  for  wealth, 
he  has  forgotten  the  wealth  of  affection,  the  world  of 
intellectual  enjoyment  which  lies  around  him.     The 
heart  is  dead,  but  a  portion  of  his  intellect  is  sharp 
ened  into  unnatural  life.     Here  is  the  ignorant  day- 
laborer.    He  knows  nothing  of  the  wealth  of  science, 
the  lore  of  history,  or  the  charms  of  poetry.     His 
mind  is  all  uncultured  and  inert.     But  he  is  not 
wholly  dead.     His  heart  is  alive.     He  loves  his  wife 
and  joys  in  the  sweet  presence  of  his  children,  and 
labors  cheerfully  for  their  support.     Here  is  another 
whose  course  in  life  is  fitful  and  changing  as  April 
skies.    He  has  no  fixed  purpose.    He  goes  on  like  a 
sail-vessel  driven  here  and  there  by  every  wind,  and 
often  becalmed  —  instead  of  moving  steadily  onward 
like  a  steamer  breasting  every  opposing  wave,  and 
dashing  aside  obstacles  as  the  steamer  at  every  pulse- 
beat  of  its  fiery  heart  dashes  aside  the  spray.     Some 
part  of  his  manhood  is  dead.    He  has  no  faith  in  the 
omnipotence  of  work,  no  just  conception  of  his'dig- 
nity  as  man,  no  worthy  goal  in  view,  and  so  his  course 
is  vacillating  and  uncertain. 

The  loafer  has  suffered  the  triple  death  of  heart, 
mind  and  purpose.  He  cannot  love  any  one  worthily, 
for  love  makes  us  self-distrustful,  it  awakens  desire 
for  nobler  life,  it  inspires  to  work.  He  cannot  even 
be  a  good  friend,  for  his  nature  is  too  sluggish  to 
perceive  and  meet  the  delicate  requirements  of 


LUTE   TAYLOR  S  CHIP   BASKET.  2OI 

friendship.  His  mind  is  dead,  except  that  baser 
part  which  gives  expression  to  passion  and  appetite. 
The  dignity  of  man,  the  divinity  of  knowledge,  the 
desirableness  of  self-culture,  the  unmeasured  worth 
of  the  soul  —  all  these  inspiring  thoughts  are  lost  to 
him.  O  loafer!  thou  art  a  miserable  being.  Thy 
life  is  aimless  as  the  beast's.  Thou  wilt  gaze  on  life 
with  an  eye  as  dull  as  that  of  the  ox  who  looks  on,  a 
beautiful  landscape. 

Young  man,  would  you  be  a  loafer  ?  It  is  a  small 
task.  " Facilis  descensus  Averni  est"  "The  way  to 
hell  (or  loaferism,  about  the  same  thing,)  is  easy." 
You  have  only  to  hate  to  work,  to  neglect  to  culti 
vate  your  mind,  to  acquire  a  passion  for  playing  all 
kinds  of  games  and  telling  all  kinds  of  stories,  to 
allow  yourself  to  hang  around  public  places,  and  the 
thing  is  done.  You  are  defunct,  dead  and  worthless, 
and  you  bear  about  your  own  epitaph,  written  unmis 
takably  plain  —  Loafer ! 

A  FEW  days  ago,  just  as  the  sun  was  rising,  in  the 
stillness  of  the  beautiful  morning  we  heard  the  rura- 
ble  and  roar  of  a  great  train  leaving  the  depot. 
Turning  our  eyes  that  way,  we  found  the  train  itself 
concealed  from  view,  but  its  progress  was  marked  by 
the  great  bursts  of  smoke  which  constantly  rose  from 
the  engine,  marking  the  changing  position  and  pro 
gress  of  the  train.  Never  before  have  we  seen  such 
a  trailing  banner,  full  a  mile  in  length,  as  that  engine 
bore  through  the  clear  thin  air  of  that  wintry  morn. 
Rolling  out  in  great  black  billows,  it  would  widen 


202  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

and  whiten,  unroll  and  spread,  and  pile  up  in  fan 
tastic  shapes,  only  to  unroll  again  and  take  on  other 
shapes  more  fantastic  still,  still  rising  higher  and 
growing  more  impalpable  and  clear,  until  at  last  it 
melted  imperceptibly  away,  swallowed  up  by  the 
surrounding  air. 

Looking  at  this  wonderful,  ever-shifting  and  ever- 
whitening  panorama,  we  thought  how  like  it  was  to 
the  memory  which  a  good  man  leaves  behind  him. 
Seen  in  the  present,  his  life,  at  best,  is  full  of  imper 
fections,  veined  with  black  lines  of  selfishness,  am 
bition  or  greed  —  but,  as  the  years  pass  away,  these 
fade  out  in  the  mellow  light  of  time ;  we  think  and 
speak  of  them  no  more,  and  so  at  last  his  memory 
comes  to  be  purified  of  all  stain,  and  is  ever  after 
an  inspiration  for  goodness  and  truth  to  all  who 
think  upon  it ;  and  the  man  himself,  according  to 
his  position  and  influence,  is  enshrined  in  the  love 
of  friends  and  relatives,  or  taken  into  the  world's 
wide  heart,  is  canonized  as  a  saint  and  made  a  po 
tent  power  forevermore.  Happy  they,  be  they  hum 
ble  or  famous,  who  leave  such  memories  behind ! 

FANCY  is  merely  Fact  coquetting  a  little  with 
Falsehood. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  203 


TRAIN  AND  CHRISTIANITY. 

[From  an  editorial  reviewing  a  lecture  by  George  Francis 
Train,  so  far  as  it  alluded  to  the  Christian  religion.] 

The  Christian  religion,  as  the  abiding  faith  and 
the  last  enduring  hope  of  all  civilized  mankind,  is  in 
no  danger  from  Mr.  Train.  What  the  deep  and  rev 
erent  skepticism  of  Spinoza,  the  monumental  learn 
ing  of  Hobbes,  the  wit  of  Voltaire,  the  bitterness 
and  malignity  of  Paine  and  the  logic  of  Taylor  have 
vainly  assailed,  will  receive  no  detriment  from  the 
assaults  of  a  man  whose  highest  claims  to  public 
attention  are  found  in  the  fact  that  his  impudence 
and  egotism  render  his  ignorance  amusing. 

We  do  not  mean  to  deny  to  Mr.  Train  the  posses 
sion  of  an  incisive  wit,  a  vivacious  and  brilliant 
intelligence,  and  what  has  been  aptly  called  "vast 
and  varied  misinformation,"  but  his  attempts  to  ex 
plain  the  origin  of  Confucius,  Buddha,  Zoroaster  and 
Mahomet  disclosed  such  utter  ignorance  of  the  sub 
ject  as  to  create  amazement  even  in  the  minds  of 
his  warmest  admirers. 

As  already  intimated,  there  was  nothing  original 
in  Mr.  Train's  onslaught  upon  Christianity.  It  was 
a  sickly  revival  of  old  stock  quotations  and  Joe  Mil- 
lerisms  on  the  subject,  which  civilization  has  lived 
down — which  the  intelligence  of  the  age,  in  har 
mony  with  its  spiritual  needs  and  resentments,  has 
long  since  banished  among  the  obscenities. 


204  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

But  while  there  is  no  danger  to  the  body  of  Chris 
tian  theology  and  the  Christian  institutions  of  the 
land,  from  such  puny  efforts  as  these,  there  is  danger 
that  thoughtless  persons,  like  some  who  applauded 
the  other  evening,  beguiled  into  hero-worship  by  the 
wit  and  "  smartness  "  of  the  speaker,  may  have  their 
faith  unsettled.  For  a  man  who  has  been  reared  in 
the  shadow  of  the  church,  who  has  found  in  its 
teachings  alone  the  answer  to  his  questionings  of 
the  hereafter — for  such  a  man  to  be  brought  to  ask 
that  awful  question,  "  Art  thou  he  that  should  come, 
or  look  we  for  another?" — and  to  go  away  doubting 
and  unsatisfied,  is  the  mournfullest  thing  that  can 
befall  a  soul  upon  earth. 

A  religion  —  a  belief  in  the  fixed  relations  of  all 
men  to  a  universal  divine  government,  and  in  a  fu 
ture  state  where  imperishable  souls  will  fulfill  a  des 
tiny  determined  by  their  conduct  in  this  —  is  as 
much  a  natural  constituent  of  the  human  mind  as 
will,  memory  or  understanding,  and  the  want  of  such 
belief  as  monstrous  and  abnormal  as  a  condition  of 
idiocy.  Nothing  proves  this  more  clearly  than  the 
avidity  with  which  men  in  all  ages  have  embraced 
the  impostures  brought  to  them  in  the  name  of  re 
ligion.  Many  of  these  impostures,  like  Mahometan- 
ism,  have  sustained  polities  and  systems  of  govern 
ment  and  forms  of  partial  civilization  for  centuries. 
But  in  every  case  where  they  have  not  been  dis 
carded  by  the  intelligence  of  the  peoples  holding 
them  they  have  been  discredited  by  the  manifest 
superiority  of  other  systems  rising  above  them. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  205 

Eighteen  centuries  ago  many  such  systems  had  per 
ished,  and  their  traditions  were  scattered  through  the 
silly  fables  of  barbarism.  The  Greeks,  and  the  Ro 
mans  after  them,  had  reasoned  Jupiter  out  of  exist 
ence,  and  while  some  of  their  wise  men  were  at 
tempting  to  make  to  themselves  a  new  God  out  of 
philosophy,  the  masses  were  nocking  in  obedience 
to  the  uncontrollable  instinct,  around  the  impure 
altars  of  Phoenician  and  Egyptian  divinities.  Vice 
and  ignorance  on  the  one  hand,  and  mere  intellectual 
license  on  the  other,  rooted  out  the  pristine  virtues 
and  the  old  faith  of  the  people,  and  were  preparing 
the  way  for  the  downfall  of  the  ancient  civilization. 
It  was  the  age  when  skepticism  stood  ready  to  join 
hands  with  depravity. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  Christian  relil 
gion  which  came  in  this  Providential  period,  and  in 
spite  of  fire  and  sword  and  persecution,  in  spite  of 
the  poverty,  obscurity  and  weakness  of  its  origina 
tors  and  adherents,  fastened  itself  upon  the  times, 
intercepted  the  calamity,  and  preserved  the  world 
from  barbarism.  And  from  that  period  down  to  the 
present,  it  has  been  the  founder  of  laws,  the  nurse  of 
the  arts,  the  forerunner  and  pioneer  of  the  only  form 
of  civilization  which  promises  the  redemption  of  all 
men  to  higher  and  nobler  life.  And  not  only  has  it 
proved  itself  the  great  organizer  of  society  and  gov 
ernment,  but  in  its  influence  upon  individuals,  in 
mitigating  and  soothing  the  asperities  of  existence, 
and  lifting  spiritual  aspirations  into  definite  assur 
ance,  it  has  shown  itself  the  indispensable  support 


206  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

of  that  humanity  which  is  more  important  than  gov 
ernment  *and  more  enduring  than  society.  Every 
good  thing  which  is  known  to  modern  man,  every 
social  ordinance  and  public  institution  to  whose  care1, 
as  to  an  ark  of  safety,  he  commits  his  children,  his 
country  and  his  hopes,  is  involved,  for  good  or  evil, 
with  the  fate  of  the  Christian  system;  and  every 
thrust  and  stab  at  the  integrity  of  that  system  is  a 
blow  at  civil  order  and  social  safety. 

What  shall  we  have  in  its  place  when  it  is  stricken 
down  ?  Where  is  the  philosophy,  the  code  of  merely 
human  ethics  without  divine  sanction,  with  power  to 
dominate  and  unify  the  intellect  of  all  men  in  its 
support,  and  restrain  their  lusts  within  those  limits 
where  alone  civilization  is  possible?  Is  it  in  the 
twaddle  of  George  Francis  Train? — the  airy  refine 
ments  of  Emerson?  —  the  mysticism  of  Hegel  and- 
Fichte  ?  But  every  man  who  has  succeeded  in  stifling 
the  cry  of  his  heart  for  supernatural  aid  may  as 
sume  his  equality  with  the  greatest  of  these,  and 
reject  the  authority  of  each  in  his  turn,  and  estab 
lish  a  code  of  ethics  for  himself.  The  intellectual 
perversities  and  delusions  which  must  inevitably 
follow  from  such  confusion  of  ideas  and  systems 
would  very  quickly  demonstrate  their  own  absurdity 
and  perish,  but  in  their  fall  might  drag  down  to  de 
struction  the  whole  fabric  of  civil  society. 

Are  those  who  applauded  Mr.  Train's  speech  the 
other  evening  prepared  for  the  change  ?  We  think 
not.  Let  them  be  satisfied  (as  who  is  not  ?)  of  the 
deficiencies  and  imperfections  of  the  church,  and 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  207 

the  misdeeds  of  many  professing  Christians  —  yet 
they  will  see,  upon  examination,  that  faulty  as  it  is, 
its  faults  are  in  its  administration  and  not  in  its 
origin  or  principles ;  that,  faulty  as  it  is,  there  is  on 
earth  for  the  soul  of  man  no  other  refuge  and  no 
other  hope. 

We  have  penned  these  words,  not  as  professing 
Christians,  nor  as  men  worthy  either  in  character  or 
conduct  to  stand  for  so  great  a  cause,  but  from  the 
standpoint  of  men  of  the  world  who  would  not  will 
ingly  see  destroyed  the  only  existing  guarantee  of 
progress  and  civilization,  and  who,  if  they  have  not 
the  grace  to  choose  the  better  part  themselves,  yet 
cannot  endure  that  all  sacred  things  should  be 
scoffed  at  in  public  places  in  a  Christian  land,  by  a 
man  who  boasts  of  his  ignorance  in  those  branches 
of  learning  most  needed  in  order  to  judge  of  them, 
and  whose  most  conspicuous  trait  is  inability  to  com 
prehend  that  which  he  sneers  at. 


208  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 


"ALL  RIGHT." 

There  are  some  little  phrases  which  occupy  the 
same  place  in  the  coinage  of  words  that  dimes  and 
sixpences  do  in  the  coinage  of  money.     They  are 
freely  passed  back  and  forth  in  the  interchange  of 
thought,  and  every  one  shares  in  their  possession 
Among  these    is    the    phrase  "All    right."     Young 
America  meets  his  fellow  in  the  street,  and  accosts 
him   with  the    customary   "How    d'ye    do?"     "All 
right,"   is    the    ready    response.      The    merchant 
:ountmg  the  change  for  an  article  just  sold,  blandly 
assures   the  purchaser  that  it  is  "all  right."     You 
ask  the  steamboat  clerk  about  your  state-room,  or 
the  porter  about  your  baggage,  and  receive  the  con 
soling   assurance-  "All    right."      A   friend    shows 
you  a  note  bearing  your  signature,  which  he  has  just 
purchased.     You  glance  at  it,  and,  with  the  most 
perfect  sang-froid,  remark  "All  right."     The  train 
is  filled  with  anxious  and  impatient  passengers,  the 
engine  hisses  and  groans  like  a  demon  in  pain,'and 
its  fiery  heart  seems  to  throb  with  anger  at  the  de 
lay,  yet  it  stands  motionless,  waiting  for  the  conduc 
tor's  signal  that  "all's  right."     A  short  time  ago  we 
were  driving  along,  and  as  we  were  going  down  a 
hill  at  rather  a  reckless  speed,  a  sudden  turn  brought 
us  into  close  proximity  to  another  carriage  loaded 
with  ladies  and  gentlemen.     A  light  shadow  of  fear 
and    apprehension    clouded    the    fair   faces    of  the 
ladies,  but  as  we  whirled  past,  the  hubs  of  the  car- 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  209 

* 

riages  merely  giving  each  other  a  friendly  rub,  a 
jolly,  rollicking,  good-natured  looking  fellow,  whose 
Young  America  hat  sat  jauntily  on  his  head,  pleas 
antly  informed  us  that  everything  was  "all  right." 
We  had  scarcely  anything  in  our  head  but  the  end 
of  a  cigar,  and  its  mild  influence  induced  a  musing 
mood  —  and  so  we  fell  to  thinking  whether  our  jolly 
fellow  had  told  the  truth  when  he  said  "all  right." 
Did  he  realize  the  breadth  and  comprehensiveness 
of  that  phrase  ?  Was  it  "  all  right "  with  him  ?  Were 
his  thoughts'  and  actions  toward  that  sweet-faced 
girl  by  his  side  "  all  right  ?"  Was  his  conduct  toward 
her  that  of  manly  honesty  and  noble  reverence  ? 
Were  his  thoughts  chastened  and  ennobled  by  gazing 
on  her  beauty,  or  was  he  toying  with  her  to  pass  an 
idle  hour,  watching  with  pleasure  his  power  to  call 
the  color  to  her  cheek,  and  criminally  waking  up 
emotions  and  feelings  which  must  flow  forth  unmet  ? 
In  his  relations  toward  the  world  was  he  "  all  right?" 
Did  he  harbor  no  feelings  of  anger  or  resentment 
toward  any  one  ?  Was  the  "  golden  rule  "  the  law 
of  his  life,  or  was  he  selfish  in  his  aims  and  purposes, 
pushing  his  way  to  his  desired  goal,  regardless  of  the 
rights,  the  interests  or  the  feelings  of  others  ?  In  his 
relations  to  himself  was  he  "all  right?"  Was  he  vio 
lating  no  law  of  his  physical  being  ?  Was  he  always* 
true  to  his  better  judgment  and  noblest  impulse  ? 
Had  the  possibility  of  human  culture,  of  a  manly 
and  noble  growth  of  soul,  occurred  to  him?  Was 
his  mind  enriched  and  strengthened  by  calm  reflec 
tion,  by  careful  observation,  by  communion  with  the 


2io  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

great  souls  of  the  present  and  of  past  ages?  Was 
his  eye  trained  to  see  the  beauty  that  greets  us  with 
all  its  freshness  on  each  succeeding  day  ?  Did  he 
rightly  appreciate  and  enjoy 

"  The  glory  of  the  sunset  skies, 
The  tenderer  beauty  of  the  dawn?" 

In  his  relations  to  the  Great  Maker  of  all  was  he 
"all  right?"  Was  his  whole  soul  permeated  with  a 
deep  feeling  of  reverence  and  adoration  as  he  looked 
up  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  ?  Had  he  learned  to 
"  look  through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God  ?  "  Did  he 

"  Love  all  virtue,  like  the  light, 
Dear  to  the  soul  as  sunshine  to  the  eye?" 

In  fact,  was  he,  as  he  jocularly  assured  us,  "  all 
right?"  And,  thinking  of  him,  we  naturally  inquired 
if  with  ourself  it  was  "all  right.'' 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  211 


GRAVES  AND  GRAVEYARDS. 

There  is  no  way  in  which  a  refined  and  cultivated 
taste  more  appropriately  shows  itself  than  in  adorn 
ing  and  beautifying  the  dwellings  of  the  dead.  The 
ancient  Egyptians  gave  but  little  care  to  their  earthly 
houses,  but  they  spent  years  of  toil  and  employed 
the  highest  artistic  skill  upon  their  tombs.  There  is 
a  philosophy  in  this.  We  love  to  think  of  the  dead 
as  crowned  with  immortal  beauty,  as  wearing  the 
bloom  and  possessing  the  vigor  of  eternal  youth. 
We  forget  the  foibles  and  faults  which  might  have 
been  theirs,  but  the  remembrance  of  their  virtues 
and  kindnesses  dwells  ever  with  us.  And  the  spot 
where  they  are  laid  should  be  beautiful  to  the  eye, 
be  adorned  by  the  hand  of  affection,  that  all  our 
thoughts  of  the  dead  may  be  elevating,  pure  and 
pleasant.  Then,  too,  a  graveyard,  if  tastily  kept,  is 
always  a  place  of  resort,  not  only  for  those  who  have 
heart-treasures  buried  in  its  bosom,  but  for  the 
stranger  who  may  be  "within  our  gates."  Is  it  not 
fitting,  then,  that  the  graveyard  should  be  made  at 
tractive,  that  its  location  should  be  pleasant,  that  it 
should  be  adorned  by  art,  that  flowers  and  beautiful 
shrubbery  should  spring  from  the  soil  where  lie  the 
"dear  departed"  —  so  that  to  one  gazing  upon  the 
scene,  death  should  be  robbed  of  some  of  its  asperi 
ties,  and,  as  he  thinks  of  the  time  when  his  cheek 
shall  be  colorless  and  his  eyes  closed  forever,  he  will 


212  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

be  enabled  to  look  with  quiet  resignation,  with  sub 
dued  and  chastened  pleasure, 

"  Into  the  great  Unknown, 
Into  the  silent  land  ?" 

Notwithstanding  the  sneers  of  the  skeptic,  the 
heartless  philosophy  of  the  stoic,  and  the  faith  of 
the  Christian,  death  is  an  event  almost  universally 
dreaded.  It  is  not  the  agony  of  dissolving  nature 
which  we  fear,  but  it  is  the  sense  of  that  mystery 
which  shrouds  our  exit  from  this  world  and  entrance 
upon  another.  Even  he  who  trustingly  confides  in 
the  Scriptural  revelations  of  a  future  world,  is  awed 
and  startled  by  the  very  grandeur  of  those  revela 
tions,  and  he  passes  into  the  portal  of  death  with  that 
trembling  hesitation  with  which  a  peasant  would 
enter  the  palace  of  a  king. 

But  it  is  in  our  power  to  rob  death  of  many  of  its 
unnatural  terrors.  The  graveyard  should  be  made 
so  attractive  as  to  become  a  pleasant  place  of  resort, 
and  so  gradually  the  idea  of  death  will  become  do 
mesticated  in  our  minds,  the  "  better  land  "  will 
become  more  familiar  to  our  thought,  and  the  con 
viction  will  live  more  constantly  within  us  that  we 
"are  passing  through  nature  to  eternity."  We  have 
passed  many  pleasant  hours  in  graveyards.  As  we 
now  write  there  are  touching  and  beautiful  scenes — 
and  some  sad  and  sorrowful  ones  —  which  memory 
brings  vividly  to  mind.  But  it  would  protract  our 
article  too  far  to  relate  them. 

Yet  we  cannot  close  without  enriching  our  page 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  213 

with  a  passage  from  Shakspeare,  a  passage  which 
has  elicited  the  admiration  and  touched  the  feelings 
of  thousands,  a  passage  which  will  command  the 
praise  and  call  forth  the  sympathy  of  men  and  women 
as  long  as  genius  shall  be  prized,  and  the  heart  be 
moved  by  the  tear  of  sorrow  and  the  sob  of  grief — 
the  burial  of  Ophelia. 

Ophelia  needs  no  eulogy.  To  know  that  Hamlet 
loved  her  is  a  sufficient  guaranty  that  she  possessed 
all  sweet  and  maidenly  qualities.  Yet,  thinking  of 
her  burial,  we  love  to  think  of  her  life,  of  her  filial 
obedience,  of  her  maidenly  love,  of  her  sweet  praise 
of  the  loved  one,  of  her  touching  lament  over  his  sup 
posed  madness,  of  the  last  sad  scene  when,  "chant 
ing  snatches  of  old  tunes,"  she  sank  to  "muddy 
death."  We  think  of  Hamlet  too  —  of  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  which  must  have  crowded  upon  him 
as  he  talked  with  the  grave-diggers,  soliloquized  over 
the  skull  of  "poor  Yorick,"  and  watched  that  form 
laid  in  the  grave  in  which  had  been  garnered  up  all 
his  youthful  loves. 

The  reluctant  priest  has  performed  the  obsequies. 
She  has  had 

"  The  maiden  strewment,  and  the  bringing  home 
Of  bell  and  burial." 

When  Laertes  asks : 

•'  Must  then  no  more  be  done? 
Priest.     No  more  be  done  : 
We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead 


214  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

To  sing  a  requiem,  and  such  rest  to  her 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 

Laer.     Lay  her  i'  the  earth  ; 
And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring !     I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  minist'ring  angel  shall  my  sister  be 
When  thou  liest  howling. 

Ham.     What,  the  fair  Ophelia ! 

Queen.     (Scattering  flowers?) 
Sweets  to  the  sweet :     Farewell ! 
I  hoped  thou  shouldst  have  been  my  Hamlet's  wife; 
I  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  decked,  sweet  maid, 
And  not  have  strewed  thy  grave." 


THE  HOLIDAYS. 

The  week  intervening  between  Christmas  and 
New  Year's  is  the  week  of  gladness,  joy  and  fruitage. 
The  blessings  which  the  year  has  borne,  the  good  it 
has  wrought,  finds  expression  in  Christmas  gifts  and 
New  Year's  presents,  and  the  love  which  proffers 
these,  and  the  thankfulness  which  accepts  them,  is 
more  to  be  valued  than  the  gifts  themselves. 

Love  is  to  the  life  of  the  soul  what  electricity  is 
to  the  world  of  matter  —  an  unseen,  all-pervading 
and  almost  almighty  force.  With  it  life  blossoms 
into  beauty,  and  is  fragrant  with  mystic  meanings 
and  rich  in  noble  uses.  Without  it  life  is  dead  as  a 
sapless  trunk,  cold  as  a  corpse. 

But  love  cannot  always  run  on  its  sweet  errands. 
Daily  duties,  stern  necessities,  the  imperative  de- 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  213 

mands  of  life,  often  confront  it.  Limited  means 
make  it  impossible  to  translate  the  generous  thought 
into  equally  munificent  action.  And  so,  as  the  year 
stores  her  warmth  and  light,  her  flavor  and  lustrous 
beauty  into  the  ripening  fruit  and  drops  it  in  autumn, 
mellow,  sweet  and  golden,  into  waiting  hands,  so  love 
garners  its  gifts  until  the  Christmas  ushers  in  the 
week  of  joy  and  thankfulness,  and  then  proudly 
places  them  in  expectant  hands,  and  reads  its  re 
ward  in  the  light  of  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure,  or 
dimmed  with  a  happiness  which  forces  tears.  The 
holidays  are  the  harvest-time  of  human  love. 

Now,  too,  we  "post  the  books  "  —  not  the  ledgers 
alone,  but  the  account  current  of  our  lives  —  and 
see  whether  we  are  drifting  toward  yawning  gulfs  of 
sin,  or  rising  with  purer  purpose  toward  nobler  life. 
Of  course  one  day  is  like  another,  and  our  division 
of  time  merely  an  arbitrary  one,  but  yet  in  the  fu 
ture,  as  in  the  past,  the  advent  of  the  New  Year 
will  continue  to  symbolize  the  youth  of  the  world, 
the  perennial  joy  of  creation,  the  immortal  spirit 
that,  amid  the  ravages  of  death  and  decay  and  care 
and  sorrow,  still  pursues  its  course  to  its  celestial 
destiny. 


2i6  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

AN  EDITOR  AND  HIS  PAPER.  —  A  newspaper  is  not 
a  person,  but  it  is  considerably  more  than  a  thing. 
It  has  a  separate  existence,  an  identity  distinct  from 
that  of  its  editor  or  publisher,  though  its  life  is  very 
closely  connected  with  the  brain  of  the  one  and  the 
pocket  of  the  other.  It  may  be  an  object  of  love 
and  respect,  or  of  hatred  and  detestation.  The  re 
lation  between  an  editor  and  his  paper  is  something 
which  neither  Webster  nor  Worcester  has  fully  de 
fined.  The  paper  is  not  the  editor,  though  it  demands 
his  care  and  absorbs  his  thought,  hanging  on  to  him 
like  a  poor  relation,  as  dependent  as  a  participle  on 
its  parent  verb.  It  interprets  his  ideas,  and  reflects 
his  life  —  is  a  sort  of  errand  boy,  carrying  his 
thoughts,  —  and  has,  moreover,  a  wise  reticence, 
never  communicating  anything  concerning  its  editor 
except  ,what  he  wills  to  have  known.  The  'editor 
may  be  a  harum-scarum  fellow,,  with  many  little  flaws 
on  the  surface  of  his  daily  life,  but  the  paper  is 
sober,  staid,  redolent  with  virtues,  and  solemn  under 
the  weight  of  "leaded  "  articles.  And  so  the  editor 
grows  to  love  his  paper.  Demanding  his  constant 
care,  taxing  his  most  patient  thought,  it  becomes  the 
object  of  his  love  and  the  absorbent  of  his  life. 


LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET.  217 


SOCIOLOGY. 

We  merely  chronicle  the  fact.  At  Piqua,  Ohio, 
one  Thomas  Wise  courted  and  said  he  would  marry 
Mary  Macher.  He  backed  out  of  his  promise 
and  engaged  himself  to  another  young  woman. 
Last  Sunday,  with  this  guilt  upon  him,  he  went  to 
the  Catholic  church ;  also  to  the  same  church  went 
Mary,  and  took  a  seat  immediately  behind  Thomas. 
After  she  had  smoothed  out  the  folds  of  her  dress, 
she  took  a  horse-pistol  out  of  her  muff,  placed  the 
muzzle  against  Thomas'  back  and  fired,  blowing  a 
hole  through  his  lungs.  Thomas  is  not  expected  to 
recover.  "  But  was  there  no  —  ?"  No,  it  don't  ap 
pear  that  there  was  anything  of  that  kind  at  all. 
Mary  seems  to  have  been  as  chaste  as  an  icicle  on 
the  eaves  of  Diana's  woodshed,  and  Thomas  as  free 
from  all  carnal  sin  as  a  graven  image. 

There  is  not  much  to  be  said  about  it.  It  all 
comes  from  the  law  of  progress.  A  woman's  right 
to  homicide  the  man  who  has  been  too  much  al 
lured  by  her  charms  has  been  so  frequently  af 
firmed  by  courts  and  juries  that  it  may  be  consid 
ered  a  part  of  the  common  law  of  the  country.  But 
to  scorn  her  for  the  allurements  of  some  hated  rival 
— this  is  a  far  greater  outrage  to  sensitive  woman 
hood,  and  progress  demands  that  it  be  placed  among 
the  capital  crimes  also.  This,  at  least,  seems  to  have 
been  Miss  Mary's  view  of  it  when  she  pursued 


2i 8  LUTE  TAYLOR'S  CHIP  BASKET. 

Thomas  into  the  sanctuary  and  slew  him  at  the  foot 
of  the  altar. 

The  circle  of  social  ideas  and  requirements  within 
which  a  man's  life  may  be  considered  safe  is  be 
coming  fearfully  narrowed.  The  Mary  Harris  case 
we  were  not  disposed  to  complain  of — for,  notwith 
standing  we  thought  the  alleged  offender  in  that  case 
should  have  been  tried  before  he  was  executed,  still 
the  moral  of  the  case  had  no  terrors  for  the  young 
man  of  "correct  habits."  But  push  this  Ohio  case 
to  its  logical  results,  and  where  does  the  man  of  the 
period  stand  ?  He  may  enlarge  his  litany,  and  cry 
out,  "From  raging  females  and  horse  pistols  in 
church,  Good  Lord  deliver  me  !  "  He  may  fly  to 
the  horns  of  the  altar,  and  cling  to  them  for  safety. 
In  vain  —  he  shall  be  made  to  feel  that  "Hell  hath 
no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned." 

The  upshot  of  it  all  will  be,  we  suppose,  to  make 
social  intercourse  between  ladies  and  gentlemen  im 
possible.  In  the  present  condition  of  the  law  of 
homicide  we  are  not  sure  but  that  would  be  best. 


